THE  tr 
BOMBER 

BY  T  ^T 
APHERBERT 


/ 


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THE    BOMBER    GIPSY 

AND    OTHER    POEMS 


BY    THE   SAME  AUTHOR 

THE   SECRET  BATTLE 


THE 
BOMBER    GIPSY 

AND    OTHER    POEMS 


BY 

A.    P.    HERBERT 


NEW    YORK 

ALFRED    A.    KNOPF 

1920 


stack 
Annex 


Thirty-four  of  these  pieces  have  already 
appeared  in  Punch,  and  I  am  indebted  to  the 
proprietors  of  that  paper  for  their  courtesy  in 
permitting  me  to  reprint  them.  "  After  the 
Battle  "  appeared  in  The  New  Statesman,  and 
"  The  Atrocity  "  in  Queen  Alexandra's  Hospital 
Magazine. 

A.  P.  H. 

June,  1919 


2023905 


TO   MY   WIFE 

AND   TO   ALL  THE   WIVES 

WHO   HAVE   WAITED   AND   WONDERED 

BUT  ESPECIALLY 

TO  THE   WIVES    OF   THE   R.N.D. 


You  may  not  ride  through  magic  regions 

With  fifty  score  companions  near. 
Or  know  the  hope  that  lives  in  legions, 

The  fellowship  that  laughs  at  fear, 
Or  songs  at  sunset  in  the  lovely  haven 

When    with    great    cheers    the    teeming  ships 
set  out — 
Only  the  loneliness  that  makes  men  craven, 

The  silent  furniture — the  chill,  dumb  doubt. 

But  the  swords  flash,  the  cannon  thunder 

Full  oft  in  your  imaginings  : 
For  you  each  night  your  man  goes  under. 

And  cursed  is  the  strife  of  Kings. 
When   lone  winds    wail,    and    cruel    windows 
rattle. 
And  empty    chairs     sit    mocking    round  the 
fire. 
Too  oft,  I  know,  you  sit  and  dream  of  battle, 
Of  blood  and  wounds  and  dead  men  on  the 
wire. 


Ariii.         THE  BOMBER  GIPSY 

And  when  far  back  in  warm  green  levels 

He  lies  with  all  the  restful  host, 
With  dance  and  jest  and  midnight  revels. 

And  Home  is  but  a  tavern  toast, 
For  you  the  wind  still  howls  about  the  sashes, 

For  you  the  regiments  are  relieved  in  vain  : 
You  see  no  singers  in  the  ruthless  ashes. 

Only  the  wet,  the  weariness,  the  pain. 

Yet  may  you  in  this  jester's  pages 

Be  sure  the  battle  sometimes  ends, 
Nor  only  death  the  soldier's  wages. 

But  there  are  farms  and  laughing  friends. 
And  wine  and  wonders  and  delicious  leisures. 

And  dreaming  villages  where  children  dwell — 
And  if,  mayhap,  you  cannot  catch  the  pleasures. 

Believe,  at  least,  it  is  not  always  Hell. 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

The  Bomber  Gipsy 

I 

Ballade  of  Incipient  Lunacy 

4 

The  Rest-Rumour 

7 

A  Lost  Leader     .... 

lO 

The  Incorrigibles 

12 

At  the  Dump         .         .         .         • 

15 

The  Battle  of  Godson's  Beard 

i8 

After  the  Battle 

21 

Open  Warfare 

23 

Beaucourt  Revisited 

26 

The  Investiture  . 

•         29 

The  Atrocity 

•         32 

The  Ballad  of  Jones's  Blighty 

•       34 

The  Trench  Code 

36 

The  Humiliation  of  the  Palfrey 

.       38 

"  The  Chain  of  Responsibility  " 

41 

To  the  Regiment 

•        43 

Zero     ...... 

47 

The  AIischief-Makers    . 

50 

X. 


THE  BOMBER   GIPSY 


The  Romancers 

"  At  Dawn  " 

Patrols 

The  Deserters 

Free  Meals 

The  War-Dream 

The  Passing  of  the  Cod's  Head 

The  Helles  Hotel 

Dead-Mule  Tree  :  A  Song  of  Wisdom 

The  Cookers  :  A  Song  of  the  Transport 

The  German  Graves     .         .         .         .    ^ 

The  Windmill  :  A  Song  of  Victory     . 

The  Green  Estaminet 

couvrons      ...... 

Moral  ....... 

The  Tide.     To  the  Royal  Naval  Division 
The    Voyage    of    H.M.S.    "  President." 
Dream    ...... 

Stories  for  Civilians  :  The  Fly  . 

A  Song  of  Plenty        .... 

Fate  :  A  Song  of  Wisdom 


PACB 

53 
55 
57 
6i 
64 
66 
68 
71 
73 
75 
77 
79 
81 

83 
85 

87 

89 

93 
96 

98 


THE    BOMBER    GIPSY 

AND    OTHER    POEMS 


THE  BOMBER  GIPSY 

Come,  let  me  tell  the  oft-told  tale  again 

Of  that  strange  Tyneside  grenadier  we  had, 
Whom  none  could  quell  or  decently  constrain. 

For  he  was  turbulent  and  sometimes  bad ; 
Yet,  stout  of  heart,  he  dearly  loved  to  fight, 
And  spoke  his  fellows  on  a  gusty  night 
In   some   high  barn,   where,    huddled   in   the 
straw. 

They  watched  the  cheap  wicks  gutter  on 
the  shelf, 
How  he  was  irked  with  discipline  and  law. 

And  would  fare  forth  to  battle  by  himself. 

This  said,  he  left  them  and  returned  no  more ; 

But  whispers  passed  from  Vimy  to  Verdun, 
Where'er  the  fields  ran  thickliest  with  gore, 

Of  some   stray   bomber   that   belonged    to 
none. 
But  none  more  fierce  or  flung  a  fairer  bomb, 
Who  ran  unscathed  the  gamut  of  the  Somme, 


2  THE  BOMBER  GIPSY 

And  followed  Freyberg  up  the  Beaucourt  mile. 
With  uncouth  cries  and  streaming  muddy 
hair ; 
But  after,  when  they  sought  his  name  and 
style 
And   would    have    honoured    him — he    was 
not  there. 

For  most  he  loved  to  lie  upon  Lorette 
And,   couched  on  cornflowers,  gaze  across 
the  lines 
At  Vimy's  heights — we  had  not  Vimy  yet — 
Pale  Souchez's  bones  and  Lens  among  the 
mines. 
The  tall  pit-towers  and  dusky  heaps  of  slag. 
Until,  like  eagles  on  the  mountain-crag 
By   strangers   stirred,  with   hoarse,  indignant 
shrieks 
Gimners    emerged    from    some    deep-delved 
lair 
To  chase  the  intruder  from  their  sacred  j>eaks 
And  cast  him  down  to  Ablain  St.  Nazaire. 

And   rumour   said   he   roamed   the   rearward 
ways 
In  quiet  seasons  when  no  battle  brewed ; 
The   transport,   homing  through  the  evening 
haze, 
Had  seen  and  carried  him,  and  given  him 
food; 


THE  BOMBER  GIPSY  3 

And  he  would  leave  them  at  Bethune  canteen. 
Or    some    hot    drinking-house    at    Noeux-les- 

Mines, 
Where  he  would  sit  with  wine  and  eggs  and 
bread 
Till  the  swart  minions  of  the  A.P.M. 
Stole  in  and  called  for  him,  but  found  him 
fled 
Out  at  the  back.     He  was  too  much  for  them. 

Too  much.     And  surely  thou  shalt  e'er  be  so  ; 

No  hungry  discipline  shall  starve  thy  soul ; 

Shalt  freely  foot  it  where  the  poppies  blow, 

Shalt    fight    unfettered    when    the    cannon 

roll, 

And    haply.    Wanderer,    when    the    hosts    go 

home, 
Thou  only  still  in  Aveluy  shalt  roam, 
Shalt  haunt  the  crumbled  Windmill  at  Gavrelle 

And  fling  thy  bombs  across  the  silent  lea, 
Drink    with    shy  peasants    at    St.  Catherine's 
Well, 
And  in  the  dusk  go  home  with  them  to  tea. 


BALLADE    OF    INCIPIENT    LUNACY 

Seme. — A  Battalion  "  Orderly  "  Room  in 
France  during  a  period  of  "  Rest."  Runners 
arrive  breathlessly  from  all  directions  bearing 
illegible  chits,  and  tear  off  in  the  same  direc- 
tions with  illegible  answers  or  no  answers 
at  all.  Motor-bicycles  snort  up  to  the  door, 
and  arrogant  despatch-riders  enter  with 
enormous  envelopes  containing  leagues  of 
correspondence,  orders,  minutes,  circulars, 
maps,  signals,  lists,  schedules,  simimaries, 
and  all  sorts.  The  tables  are  stacked  with 
papers ;  the  floor  is  littered  with  papers ; 
papers  fly  through  the  air.  Two  typewriters 
click  with  maddening  insistence  in  a  comer. 
A  signaller  "  buzzes "  tenaciously  at  the 
telephone,  talking  in  a  strange  language, 
apparently  to  himself,  as  he  never  seems  to 
be  connected  with  anyone  else.  A  stream 
of  miscellaneous  persons  —  quartermasters, 
chaplains,  generals,  batmen,  D.A.D.O.S.'s, 
sergeant-majors,  staff  officers,  buglers,  Maires, 
4 


BALLADE  OF  INCIPIENT  LUNACY    5 

officers  just  arriving,  officers  just  going  away, 
gas  experts,  bombing  experts,  interpreters, 
doctors — drifts  in,  wastes  time,  and  drifts 
out  again. 

Clerks  scribble  ceaselessly,  rolls  and  nominal 
rolls,  nominal  lists  and  lists.  By  the  time 
they  have  finished  one  list  it  is  long  out  of 
date.  Then  they  start  the  next.  Every- 
thing happens  at  the  same  time ;  nobody 
has  time  to  finish  a  sentence.  Only  a  military 
mind,  with  a  very  limited  descriptive  vocabu- 
lary and  a  chronic  habit  of  self-deception, 
would  call  the  place  orderly. 

The  Adjutant  speaks,  hoarsely ;  while  he 
speaks  he  writes,  about  something  quite 
different.  In  the  middle  of  each  sentence 
his  pipe  goes  out ;  at  the  end  of  each  sentence 
he  lights  a  match.  He  may  or  may  not  light 
his  pipe  ;  anyhow  he  speaks  : — 

"  Where  is  that  list  of  Wesleyans  I  made  ? 

And    what    are    all    those    people   on    the 
stair? 
Is  that  my  pencil  ?    Well,  they  canH  be  paid. 

Tell    the    Marines    we    have    no    forms    to 
spare. 

I  cannot  get  these  Ration  States  to  square. 
The  Brigadier  is  coming  round,  they  say. 

The  Colonel  wants  a  man  to  cut  his  hair. 
I  think  I  must  be  going  mad  to-day. 


6  THE  BOMBER  GIPSY 

"  These  silly  questions  !     I  shall  tell  Brigade 

This  Office  is  now  closing  for  repair. 
They    want    to    know    what    Mr.    Johnstone 
weighed. 

And  if  the  Armourer  is  dark  or  fair  ? 

I  do  not  know  ;    I  cannot  say  I  care. 
Tell  that  Interpreter  to  go  away. 

Where  is  my  signal-pad  ?    I  left  it  there. 
I  think  I  must  be  going  mad  to-day. 

'•Perhaps  I  should  appear  upon  parade. 
Where   is  my  pencil  ?       Ring  up   Captain 
Aire ; 
Say  I  regret  our  tools  have  been  mislaid. 
These  companies  would  make  Sir  Douglas 

swear. 
'A'  is  the  worst.     Oh,  damn,   is  this  the 
Maire  ? 
I'm  sorry.  Monsieur — je  suis  disole — 

But  no  one's  pinched  your  miserable  chair. 
I  think  I  must  be  going  mad  to-day." 

Envoi 

"  Prince,  I  perceive  what  Cain's  temptations 
were. 
And  how  attractive  it  must  be  to  slay. 
O  Lord,  the  General !    This  is  hard  to  bear. 
I  think  I  must  be  going  mad  to-day." 


THE  REST-RUMOUR 

I  KNOW  not  in  what  rodent- haunted  caverns, 

By  what  rough  tongues  the  tale  was  first 

expressed, 

By  choking  fires  or  in  the  whispering  taverns. 

With  wine  and  omelette  lovingly  caressed ; 

Or    what    tired    soul,    o'erladen    with    a 

lump 
Of  bombs  and  bags  which  some  one  had 

to  hump. 
Flung   down   his   load   indignant   at   the 
Dump, 
And,    cursing,    cried,    "  It's    time    we  liad 
a  rest  !  " 

And  so,  maybe,  began  it.    Some  sly  runner. 

Half-hearing,  half-uuagining,  no  doubt. 
Caught  up  the  word  and  gave  it  to  a  gunner, 
And,  he  embroidering,  'twas  noised  about 
From  lip  to  lip  in  many  a  trench's  press, 
Where  working-parties  struggled  to  pro- 
gress 
Or  else  go  back,  but  both  without  success, 
"  Officer  says  Division's  going  out.''* 
7 


8  THE  BOMBER  GIPSY 

It  found  the  Front.       It  came  up  with  the 
rations ; 
The  Corporals  carried  it  from  hole  to  hole  ; 
And     scouts     behaved     in     strange     polemic 
fashions 
On  what  they  thought  would  be   their  last 
patrol ; 
While  Fritz,  of  course,  from  whom  few 

things  are  hid. 
Had  the  romance  as  soon  as  any  did. 
And  said,  thank  William,  he  would  soon 
be  rid 
Of  yon  condemned  disturbers  of  his  soul. 

Nor  were  there  few  confirming  little  trifles, 
For  James,  rejoining  from  the  Base,   had 
scann'd 
Strange    waiting    infantry,    with    brand-new 
rifles. 
In  backward  areas,  but  close  at  hand  ; 
And  some  had  marked  the  D.A.Q.M.G. 
Approaching  Railhead  in  the  dusk,  and  he 
(Who,    as    a    fact,    was    simply   on    the 
spree) 
Had  gone,  of  course,  to  view  the  Promised 
Land. 

And  what  a  land  !    Who  had  not  heard  its 
promise  ? 
A  land  of  quietude  and  no  grenades. 
Soft  beds  for  officers,  fair  bams  for  Tommies, 


THE  REST-RUMOUR  9 

And  rich  estaminels  and  gracious  maids. 
And  half  an  hour  from  Abbeville  by  the 

train, 
A  land  of  rivulets  and  golden  grain 
(Where  it  would  be  impossible  to  train 

And  even  difficult  to  have  parades)  ! 

Then    it    appeared    the    groom    of    General 
Harrison 
Had  news  denied  to  ordinary  men, 
How  the  Brigade  was  going  home  to  garrison 
A  restful  corner  of  the  Lincoln  fen  ; 

But  weeks  have  passed,  and  we  are  as  we 

were  ; 
And  possibly,  when  Peace  is  in  the  air 
And  these  dear  myths  have  died  of  sheer 
despair, 
They   may   come   true — but   not,    I   think, 
till  then. 


A  LOST  LEADER 

Or,  Thoughts  on  Trek 

The  men  are  marching  like  the  best ; 

The  waggons  wind  across  the  lea  ; 
At  ten  to  two  we  have  a  rest, 

We  have  a  rest  at  ten  to  three  ; 

I  ride  ahead  ujwn  my  gee 
And  try  to  look  serene  and  gay  ; 

The  whole  battalion  follows  me. 
And  I  believe  Fve  lost  the  way. 

Full  many  a  high-class  thoroughfare 

My  erring  map  does  not  disclose. 
While  roads  that  are  not  really  there 

The  same  elaborately  shows  ; 

And  whether  this  is  one  of  those 
It  needs  a  clever  man  to  say  ; 

I  am  not  clever,  I  suppose. 
And  I  believe  Fve  lost  the  way. 

The  soldiers  sing  about  their  beer  ; 

The  >NTetched  road  goes  on  and  on  ; 
There  ought  to  be  a  turning  here. 

But  if  there  was  the  thing  has  gone  ; 


A  LOST  LEADER  it 

Like  some  depressed  automaton 
I  ask  at  each  estaminet ; 

They  say,  ''Tout  droit,''  and  I  say  ''Bon" 
But  I  believe  Pve  lost  the  way. 

I  dare  not  tell  the  trustful  men  ; 

They  think  me  wonderful  and  wise  ; 
But  where  will  be  the  legend  when 

They  get  a  shock  of  such  a  size  ? 

And  what  about  our  brave  Allies  ? 
They  wanted  us  to  fight  to-day  ; 

We  were  to  be  a  big  surprise — 
And  I  believe  Vve  lost  the  way. 


THE  INCORRIGIBLES 

How  an  exasperated  Adjutant  would  like  to 
address  the  New  Guard 

"  Guard  I  for    I    still    concede    to    you    the 
title, 
Though  well  I  know  that  it  is  not  your  due. 
Being  devoid  of  everything  most  vital 
To  the  high  charge  which  is  imposed  on 
you; 
Listen  awhile — and,  Number  Two,  be  dumb ; 

Forbear  to  scratch  the  irritable  tress  ; 
No  longer  masticate  the  furtive  giun  ; 
And,  Private  Pitt,    stop    nibbling    at    your 
thumb, 
But  for  a  change  attend  to  my  address. 

"  Day  after  day  I  urge  the  old,  old  thesis — 
To  reverence  well  the  man  of  martial  note, 

Nor  treat  as  mere  sartorial  caprices 
The  mystic  marks  he  carries  on  his  coat ; 

And  how  to  know  what  everybody  is, 
The  swords,  the  cro>vns,  the  purple-stain6d 
cards. 


THE  INCORRIGIBLES  13 

The  Brigadiers  concealed  in  Burberries, 
And  render  all  those  pomps  and  dignities 

Which  are,  of  course,  the  raison  d'etre  of 
guards. 

"  With   what   avail  ?    for  never   a   guard    is 
mounted 
That    does    not    do    some    wild    abhorrent 
thing. 
Only  in  hushed  low  tones  to  be  recounted. 
Lest    haply    hints    of  it    should    reach    the 
King- 
Dark  ugly  tales  of  sentinels  who  drank, 

Or  lost  their  prisoners  while  consuming  tea. 
Or  took  great  pains  to  make  their  minds  a 

blank 
Whene'er  approached  by  gentlemen  of  rank, 
And,    when    reproved,    presented    arms    to 
me ! 

"  There  is  no  potentate  in  France  or  Flanders 

You  will  not  heap  >vith  insult  if  you  can. 
For,  lo  !  a  car.    It  is  the  Corps  Commander's  ; 

The  sentries  take  no  notice  of  the  man. 
Or  fix  him  with  a  not  unkindly  stare. 

And  slap  their  butts  in  an  engaging  way. 
Or  else,  too  late,  in  penitent  despair 
Cry,   '  Guard,  turn  out ! '    and    there    is    no 
guard  there. 

But  they  are  in  The  Blue  Esfaminet. 


14  THE  BOMBER  GIPSY 

"  Weary  I  am  of  worrying  and  warning ; 

For  all  my  toil  I  get  it  in  the  neck ; 
I  am  fed  up  with  it ;  and  from  this  morning 

I  shall  not  seek  to  keep  your  crimes  in 
check ; 
Sin  as  you  will — I  shall  but  acquiesce ; 

Sleep  on,  O  sentinels — I  shall  not  curse ; 
And  so,  maybe,  from  sheer  contrariness 
Some  day  a  guard  may  be  a  slight  success  ; 

At  any  rate  you  cannot  well  do  worse." 


AT  THE  DUMP 

Lines  to  the  N.C.O.  in  charge 

Now  is  the  hour  of  dusk  and  mist  and  midges. 
Now    the    tired    planes    drone    homeward 
through  the  haze, 
And     distant    wood-fires    wink    behind     the 
ridges, 
And    the    first  flare    some    timorous    Hun 
betrays ; 
Now  no   shell   circulates,  but   all   men   brood 

Over  their  evening  food  ; 
The  bats  flit  warily,  and  owl  and  rat 

With    muffled    cries    their    shadowy  loves 
pursue. 
And  pleasant.  Corporal,  it  is  to  chat 

In  this  hushed  moment  with  a  man  like  you. 

How  strange  a  spectacle  of  human  passions 

Is  yours  all  day  beside  the  Arras  road. 
What   mournful   men   concerned   about   their 
rations 
When  here  at  eve  the   limbers  leave  their 
load; 


i6  THE  BOMBER  GIPSY 

What  twilight  blasphemy,  what  horses'  feet 

Entangled  with  the  meat, 
What  sudden   hush   when  that  machine-gun 
sweeps. 
And — flat  as  possible  for  men  so  round — 
The  Quartermasters  may  be  seen  in  heaps, 
While   you   sit   still   and   chuckle,    I'll   be 
bound  ! 

Here  all  men  halt  awhile  and  tell  their  rumours  ; 
Here  the  young  runners  come  to  cull  your 
tales, 
How  Generals  talked  with  you,   in  splendid 
humours, 
And  how  the  Worcestershires  have  gone  to 
Wales ; 
Up    yonder    trench    each    lineward    regiment 
swings. 

Saying  some  shocking  things  ; 
And  here  at  dark  sad  diggers  stand  in  hordes 

W^aiting  the  late  elusive  Engineer, 
>Vhile  glowing  pipes  illume  yon  notice-boards 
That   say,   "No   lights.    You   must   not 

LOITER    HERE." 

And  you  sit  ruminant  and  take  no  action, 
But  daylong  watch  the  aeroplanes  at  play, 

Or  contemplate  with  secret  satisfaction 

Your    fellow-men    proceeding    towards    the 
fray. 


AT  THE  DUIMP  17 

Your  sole  solicitude  when  men  report 

There  is  a  shovel  short, 
Or,  numbering  jealously  your  rusty  store, 
Some  mouldering  rocket,  some  wet  bomb  you 
miss 
That  was  reserved  for  some  ensuing  war. 
But  on  no  grounds  to  be  employed  in  this. 

For    Colonels    cringe    to    you,    most    firm    of 
warders, 
For  sandbags  suppliant,  and  do  no  good. 
And  high  Staff  Officers  and  priests  in  orders 

In  vain  beleaguer  you  for  bits  of  wood. 
While  I,  who  have  no  signature  nor  chit. 

But  badly  want  a  bit, 
I  only  talk  to  you  of  these  high  themes. 

Nor  stoop  to  join  the  sycophantic  choir. 
Seeing  (I  trust)  my  wicked  batman,  Jeames, 
Has  meanwhile  pinched  enough  to  light  my 
fire. 


THE  BATTLE  OF  GODSON'S  BEARD 

I'll  tell  you  a  yam  of  a  sailor-man,  with  a 

face  more  fierce  than  fair, 
Who  got  round  that  on  the  Navy's  plan  by 

hiding  it  all  with  hair  ; 
He  was  one  of  a  hard  old  sailor-breed,  and 

had  lived  his  life  at  sea, 
But  he  took  to  the  beach  at  the  nation's  need, 

and  fought  with  the  R.N.D. 

Now  Brigadier-General   Blank's  Brigade  was 

tidy  and  neat  and  trim, 
And  the  sight  of  a  beard  on  his  parade  was  a 

bit  too  much  for  him  : 
"  What  is  that,"  said  he,  with  a  frightful  oath, 

"  of  all  that  is  wild  and  weird  ?  " 
And  the  Staff  replied,  "  A  curious  growth,  but 

it  looks  very  like  a  beard." 

And  the  General  said,  "  I  have  seen  six  wars, 

and  many  a  ghastly  sight. 
Fellows  with  locks  that  gave  one  shocks,  and 

buttons  none  too  bright, 
i8 


BATTLE  OF  GODSON'S  BEARD  19 

But  never  a  man  in  my  Brigade  with  a  face 

all  fringed  with  fur  ; 
And  you'll  toddle  away  and  shave  to-day." 

But  Godson  said,  "  You  err. 


"  For  I  don't  go  much  on  wars,  as  such,  and 

living  with  rats  and  Avorms, 
And  you  ought  to  be  glad  of  a  sailor  lad  on 

any  old  kind  of  terms  ; 
While  this  old  beard  of  which  you're  skeered, 

it  stands  for  a  lot  to  me, 
For  the  great  North  gales,  and  the  sharks  and 

whales,  and  the  smell  of  the  good  grey 

sea." 

New  Generals  crowded  to  the  spot  and  urged 

him  to  behave, 
But  Godson  said,  "  You  talk  a  lot,  but  can 

you  make  me  shave  ? 
For  the  Navy  allows  a  beard  at  the  bows,  and 

a  beard  is  the  sign  for  me, 
That  the  world  may  know  wherever  I  go,  I 

belong  to  the  King's  Navee." 

They  gave  him  posts  in  distant  parts  where 

few  might  see  his  face, 
Town-Major    jobs    that   break    men's    hearts, 

and  billets  at  the  Base ; 


20  THE  BOMBER  GIPSY 

But  whenever  he  knew  a  fight  was  due,  he 

hurried  there  by  train, 
And   when   he'd   done   for   every   Hun — they 

sent  him  back  again. 

Then  up  and  spake  an  old  sailor,  "  It  seems 

you  can't  'ave  'eared. 
Begging    your    pardon.    General    Blank,    the 

reason  of  this  same  beard  : 
It's  a  kind  of  a  sart  of  a  camyflarge,  and  that 

I  take  to  mean 
A    thing    as    'ides    some    other    thing    wot 

oughtn't  to  be  seen. 

"  And  I've  brought  you  this  'ere  photergraph 

of  what  'e  used  to  be 
Before   'e  stuck  that  fluffy  muck   about   'is 

phyzogtny." 
The  General  looked  and,  fainting,  cried,  "  The 

situation's  grave ! 
The    beard   was    bad,    but,    Kamerad  !    he 

simply  must  not  shave  !  " 

And  now,  when  the  thin  lines  bulge  and  sag, 

and  man  goes  down  to  man, 
A  great  black  beard  like  a  pirate's  flag  flies 

ever  in  the  van ; 
And  I've  fought  in  many  a  warmish  spot, 

where  death  was  the  least  men  feared, 
But  I  never  knew  anything  quite  so  hot  as 

the  Battle  of  Godson's  Beard. 


AFTER  THE  BATTLE 

So  they  are  satisfied  with  our  Brigade, 
And  it  remains  to  parcel  out  the  bays  ! 

And  we  shall  have  the  usual  Thanks  Parade, 
The  beaming  General,  and  the  soapy  praise. 

You  will  come  up  in  your  capacious  car 
To  find  your  heroes  sulking  in  the  rain. 

To  tell  us  how  magnificent  we  are. 
And  how  you  hope  we'll  do  the  same  again. 

And  we,  who  knew  your  old  abusive  tongue, 
Who  heard  you  hector  us  a  week  before. 

We  who  have  bled  to  boost  you  up  a  rung — 
A  K.C.B.  perhaps,  perhaps  a  Corps 

We  who  must  mourn  those  spaces  in  the  Mess, 
And  somehow  fill  those  hollows  in  the  heart. 

We  do  not  want  your  Sermon  on  Success, 
Your  greasy  benisons  on  Being  Smart. 

We  only  want  to  take  our  wounds  away 
To  some  warm  village  where  the  tumult  ends. 

And  drowsing  in  the  sunshine  many  a  day. 
Forget  our  aches,  forget  that  we  had  friends. 


22  THE  BOMBER  GIPSY 

Weary  we  are  of  blood  and  noise  and  pain ; 

This  was  a  week  we  shall  not  soon  forget ; 
And  if,  indeed,  we  have  to  fight  again, 

We  little  wish  to  think  about  it  yet. 

We  have  done  well ;  we  like  to  hear  it  said. 
Say  it,  and  then,  for  God's  sake,  say  no 
more. 
Fight,  if  you  must,  fresh  battles  far  ahead. 
But  keep  them  dark   behind   your  chateau 
door ! 


OPEN  WARFARE 

Men  said,  "  At  last !  at  last  the  open  battle  ! 

Now  shall  we  fight  unfettered  o'er  the  plain, 
No  more  in  catacombs  be  cooped  like  cattle, 

Nor  travel  always  in  a  devious  drain  !  " 
They  were  in  ecstasies.     But  I  was  damping ; 

I  like  a  trench,  I  have  no  lives  to  spare  ; 
And  in  those  catacombs,  however  cramping, 

You  did  at  least  know  vaguely  where  you 
were. 

Ah,  happy  days  in  deep  well-ordered  alleys. 

Where,  after  dining,  probably  with  wine. 
One  felt  indifferent  to  hostile  sallies, 

And  with  a  pipe  meandered  round  the  line  ; 
You  trudged  along  a  trench  until  it  ended — 

It  led  at  least  to  some  familiar  spot — 
It  might  not  be  the  place  that  you'd  intended. 

But  then  you  might  as  well  be  there  as  not. 

But  what  a  wilderness  we  now  inhabit 

Since  this   confounded   "  open "   strife  pre- 
vails ! 

It  may  be  good  ;  I  do  not  wish  to  crab  it. 
But  you  should  hear  the  language  it  entails — 

23 


24  THE  BOMBER  GIPSY 

Should    see   this    waste   of   wide    uncharted 
craters 

Where  it  is  vain  to  seek  the  Companies, 
Seeing  the  shell-holes  are  as  like  as  taters 

And  no  one  knows  where  anybody  is. 

Oft  in  the  darkness,  palpitant  and  blowing. 

Have  I  set  out  and  lost  the  hang  of  things. 
And  ever  thought,  "  Where  can  that  guide  be 
going?" 

But  trusted  long  and  rambled  on  in  rings. 
For  ever  mounting  some  tremendous  siunmit, 

And  halting  there  to  curse  the  contrite  guide, 
For  ever  then  descending  like  a  plunmiet 

Into  a  chasm  on  the  other  side. 

Oft  have  I  sat  and  wept,  or  sought  to  study 

With  hopeless  gaze  the  iminstructive  stars, 
Hopeless  because  the  very  skies  were  muddy — 

I  only  saw  a  red  malignant  Mars  : 
Or  pulled  my  little  compass  out  and  pondered. 

And  set  it  sadly  on  my  shrapnel  hat. 
Which,     I    suppose,     was    why    the    needle 
wanderwi, 

Only,  of  course,  I  never  thought  of  that. 

And  then,  perhaps,  some  5 . 9's  start  dropping, 
As  if  there  weren't  sufficient  holes  about ; 

I  flounder  on,  hysterical  and  sopping. 
And  come  by  chance  to  where  I  started  out. 


OPEN  WARFARE  25 

And  say  once  more,  while  I  have  no  objection 
To  other  men  proceeding  to  Berlin, 

Give  me  a  trench,  a  nice  revetted  section, 
And  let  me  stay  there  till  the  Boche  gives 
in  ! 


BEAUCOURT  REVISITED 

I  WANDERED  up  to  Bcaucourt ;  I  took  the  river 

track, 
And  saw  the  lines  we  lived  in  before  the  Boche 

went  back ; 
But  Peace  was  now  in  Pottage,  the  front  was 

far  ahead, 
The  front  had  journeyed  Eastward,  and  only 

left  the  dead. 

And  I  thought,  How  long  we  lay  there,  and 

watched  across  the  wire. 
While  the  guns  roared  round  the  valley,  and  set 

the  skies  afire ! 
But  now  there  are  homes  in  Hamel  and  tents 

in  the  Vale  of  Hell, 
And  a  camp  at  Suicide  Comer,  where  half  a 

regiment  fell. 

The  new  troops  follow  after,  and  tread  the  land 

we  won, 
To  them  'tis  so  much  hill-side  re-wrested  from 

the  Hun  ; 

36 


BEAUCOURT  REVISITED         27 

We  only  walk  with  reverence  this  sullen  mile  of 

mud  ; 
The  shell-holes  hold  our  history,  and  half  of 

them  our  blood. 


Here,  at  the  head  of  Peche  Street,  'twas  death 

to  show  your  face  ; 
To  me  it  seemed  like  magic  to  linger  in  the 

place ; 
For  me   how  many   spirits   hung   round   the 

Kentish  Caves, 
But  the  new  men  see  no  spirits — they  only  see 

the  graves. 


I  found  the  half-dug  ditches  we  fashioned  for 

the  fight, 
We  lost  a  score  of  men  there — young  James  was 

killed  that  night ; 
I  saw  the  star  shells  staring,  I  heard  the  bullets 

hail, 
But    the    new    troops    pass    unheeding — they 

never  heard  the  tale. 


I  crossed  the  blood-red  ribbon,  that  once  was 
No-Man's  Land, 

I  saw  a  misty  daybreak  and  a  creeping  minute- 
hand  ; 


28  THE  BOMBER  GIPSY 

And  here  the  lads  went  over,  and  there  was 

Hannsworth  shot. 
And  here  was  William  lying — but  the  new  men 

know  them  not. 

And  I  said,  "  There  is  still  the  river,  and  still 

the  stiff,  stark  trees. 
To  treasure  here  our  story,  but  there  are  only 

these  " ; 
But  under  the  white  wood  crosses  the  dead  men 

answered  low, 
"  The  new  men  know  not  Beaucourt,  but  we 

are  here — we  know." 


THE    INVESTITURE 

Be  silent,  guns  !  for  Basil  is  invested, 

And   wheresoe'er   the   slaves    of   strife   are 
found 
Let  your  grim  offices  be  now  arrested, 
Nor  the  hot  rifle  shoot  another  round, 

Nor  the  pale  flarelights  toss, 
But  for  a  space  all  devilry  be  barred, 
While    Mars    hangs    motionless    in    pleased 

regard 
And  the  hushed  lines  look  West  to  Palace 
Yard, 
Where  on  his  breast  our  King  has  pinned  the 
Cross. 


Oft    in    the    Mess    have    we    rehearsed    that 
moment. 
In  old  French  farms  have  staged  the  Royal 
Square, 
Or  in  cool  caves  by  Germans  made  at  Beau- 
mont, 
Though  there  indeed  we  had  no  space  to 
spare. 

So  lifelike  was  it  all. 
29 


30  THE  BOMBER  GIPSY 

And  when  King  George  (the  Padre's  hard 

to  beat 
In  that  great  role),  surrounded  by  his  suite. 
Pinned  on  the  cover  of  the  potted  meat. 
The  very  Hippodrome  had  seemed  too  small. 

Or  we  would  act  the  homing  of  our  Hector, 
Flushed  up  with  pride  beneath  the  ancestral 
fir. 
The  cheering  rustics  and  the  sweet  old  Rector, 
Welcoming  back  "  our  brave  parishioner  "  ; 

And  since  the  lad  was  shy 
We  made  him  get  some  simple  phrases  pat 
To  thank  them  for  the  Presentation  Bat, 
While  Maud  stood  near  (the  Adjutant  did 
that). 
So  overcome  that  she  could  only  sigh. 

Ah  !  Basil,  say  our  pageants  were  not  wasted. 

Not  vain  the  Adjutant's  laborious  blush ! 

Was  it  to  Maud  this  glowing  mom  you  hasted 

With  yonder  bauble  in  its  bed  of  plush — 

Or  was  it  that  Miss  Blake  ? 
Say     not    you     faced,     with    ill-concealed 

dismay. 
Your  thronging  townsmen  and  had  naught 

to  say. 
Or    from    your    King    stepped    tremblingly 
away 
With  some  one  else's  Order  by  mistake ! 


THE  INVESTITURE  31 

Surely    you    shamed    us    not !      for   all    that 

splendour 

Can  scarce  have  been  more  moving  to  the 

heart 

Than  our  glad  rites,  the  Princess  not  so  tender 

As  was  myself,  who  always  took  that  part ; 

I  cannot  think  the  King, 
Nor  gorgeous  Lords,  nor  Officers  of  State, 
Nor    seedy    people    peering    through    the 

gate. 
Felt  half  so  proud  or  so  affectionate 
As  those  far  friends  when  we  arranged  the 
thing. 


THE  ATROCITY 

(The  following  lines  have  no  personal  re- 
ference, but  are  in  principle,  mutatis  mutandis, 
of  regrettably  wide  application.) 

O  God  of  War,  is  this  the  end  ? 

O  Mars,  who  made  the  shameful  Hun, 
Is  this  the  final  shame  you  send 

To  show  us  we  have  nearly  won  ? 

A  thing  that  fairly  takes  the  bun, 
That  turns  our  golden  deeds  to  dross. 

O  Vimy  Ridge  and  O  Verdun — 
The  A  .D.C.  has  got  the  Cross  ! 

Because  he  caught  a  rotten  chill, 

Because  he  had  to  ring  the  bells. 
And  oft  from  some  convenient  hill 

Distinctly  heard  the  sound  of  shells  ; 

Because  he  was  the  son  of  swells. 
Because  he  was  compelled  to  doss 

In  quite  indifferent  hotels — 
The  A. D.C,  has  got  the  Cross  ! 
3* 


THE  ATROCITY  33 

He  never  saw  the  tiniest  louse 

(Or  thought  the  creature  was  a  gnat). 
But  little  jobs  about  the  house 

Were  what  the  lad  was  gallant  at ; 

And  since  he  made  himself  a  mat 
To  wipe  the  boots  of  any  boss, 

And  since  they  like  a  man  like  that — 
The  A.D.C.  has  got  the  Cross. 

Because  he  bought  the  right  cigars, 
And  last  December  got  wet  through, 

And  had  to  drive  in  draughty  cars. 
And  speak  when  he  was  spoken  to. 
And  soon  perceived  it  wasn't  true 

That  rolling  logs  collect  no  moss. 
And  stuck  to  generals  like  glue — 

The  A.D.C.  has  got  the  Cross  ! 

O  hero  hosts  who  bleed  and  sweat. 
Whose  names  the  King  will  never  ken, 

Be  calm  ;  you  may  be  butlers  yet — 
Two  mentions  per  six  hundred  men 
Must  satisfy  your  souls  till  then  ; 

And  why  should  soldiers  care  a  toss 
For  all  the  medals  minted,  when 

The  A.D.C.  has  got  the  Cross  ? 


THE  BALLAD  OF  JONES'S  BLIGHTY 

There  axe  some  men  who  dwell   for  years 

Within  the  battle's  hem, 
Almost  impervious,  it  appears, 

To  shot  or  stratagem  ; 
Some  well-intentioned  sprite  contrives 
By  hook  or  crook  to  save  their  lives 
(It  also  keeps  them  from  their  wives). 

And  Jones  was  one  of  them. 

The  hugest  bolts  of  Messrs.  Krupp 
Hissed  harmless  through  his  hair  ; 

The  Boche  might  blow  his  billet  up. 
But  he  would  be  elsewhere  ; 

And  if  with  soul-destroying  thud 

A  monstrous  Minnie  hit  the  mud. 

The  thing  was  sure  to  be  a  dud 
If  only  Jones  was  there. 

Men  envied  him  his  scathless  skin, 

But  he  deplored  the  fact. 
And  day  by  day,  from  sheer  chagrin. 

He  did  some  dangerous  act ; 
34 


THE  BALLAD  OF  JONES'S  BLIGHTY  35 

He  slew  innumerable  Huns, 
He  captured  towns,  he  captured  guns  : 
His  friends  went  home  with  Blighty  ones. 
But  he  remained  intact. 

We  had  a  horse  of  antique  shape. 

Meek  and  of  mellowed  age, 
And,  after  some  unique  escape. 

Which  made  him  mad  with  rage, 
On  this  grave  steed  Jones  rode  away  ; 
They  bore  him  back  at  break  of  day. 
And  Jones  is  now  with  Mrs,  J , 

The  convalescent  stage. 

The  world  observed  the  chance  was  droll 

That  sent  so  mild  a  hack 
To  smite  the  invulnerable  soul 

Whom  William  could  not  whack  ; 
But  spiteful  folk  remarked,  of  course. 
He  must  have  used  terrific  force 
Before  he  got  that  wretched  horse 

To  throw  him  off  its  back. 


THE  TRENCH  CODE 

Ah  !  with  what  awe,  what  infantile  impatience, 

We  eyed  the  artifice  when  issued  out. 
And  racked  our  brains  about  the  Regulations, 
And  tried  to  think  we  had  them  free  from 
doubt, 
As  Rome's  old  Fathers,  reverently  leaning 
In  secret  cellars  o'er  the  Sibyl's  strain. 
Beyond  the  fact  that  several  pars 
Had  something  vague  to  do  with  Mars, 
Failed,  as  a  rule,  to  find  the  smallest  meaning, 
But  told  the  plebs  the  oracle  was  plain  ! 

So  did  we  study  it,  ourselves  deceiving. 

In  hope  to  say,  "  We  have  no  rations  here," 
Or    "  Please,    Brigade,    this    regiment    wants 
relieving," 
And  "  Thank  you  for  the  bombs — but  why 
no  beer  ?  " 
And  wondered  always,  with  a  hint  of  presage. 
Since   never    a   word    emerged    as    it    was 
planned. 
If  it  was  Hermes,  Lord  of  Craft, 
Compiled  the  code,  or  some  one  daft. 
So  that  no  mortal  could  compose  a  message 
Which  anybody  else  could  understand. 
36 


THE   TRENCH  CODE  37 

Too  soon  the  Staff,  to  spoil  our  tiny  slumbers. 

Or,  as  they  said,  to  certify  our  skill. 
Sent  us  a  screed,  all  signs  and  magic  numbers. 

And  what  it  signified  is  mystery  still. 
We  flung  them  back  a  message  yet  more  mazy. 
To  say  we  weren't  unravelling  their  own. 
And  marked  it  Urgent,  and  designed 
That   it   should   reach   them   while   they 
dined. 
All  night  they  toiled,  till  half  the  crowd  were 
crazy, 
And  bade  us  breathe  its  burthen  o'er  the 
'phone. 


But  now  they  want  it  back — and  it  is  missing  ! 
And    shall    one    patriot    heart    withhold    a 
throb  ? 
For  four  high  officers  have  been  here,  hissing. 

And  plainly  panicky  about  their  job. 
I  know  they  think  some  dark,  deluded  bandit 
Has  gone  and  given  it  to  Kaiser  Bill ; 

But    though    I'm    grieved    the    General's 

cross, 
I  have  no  qualms  about  the  loss — 
If  clever  men  like  us  can't  understand  it, 
I  don't  suppose  the  Wilhelmstrasse  will ! 


THE  HUMILIATION  OF  THE  PALFREY 

Where  is  she  now,  the  pride  of  the  battalion. 

That  ambled  always  at  the  Colonel's  side, 
A  fair  white  steed,  like  some  majestic  galleon 
AMiich  takes  deliberate  the  harbour  tide. 
So  soft,  so  slow,  she  scarcely  seems  to 

stir  ? 
And  that,  indeed,  was  very  true  of  her 
Who  was  till  late,  so  kind  her  character. 
The  only   horse  the  Adjutant  could   ride. 

Ever  she  led  the  regiment  on  its  journeys 

And  held  sweet  converse  with  the  Colonel's 

gee. 

Of  knights,  no  doubt,  and  old  heroic  tourneys, 

And  how  she  bare  great  ladies  o'er  the  lea ; 

And  on  high  hill-sides,  when  the  men  felt 

dead. 
Far  up  the  height  they  viewed  her  at  the 

head, 
A  star  of  hope,  and  shook  themselves,  and 
said, 
"  If  she  can  do  it,  dammit,  so  can  we  !  " 
38 


HUMILIATION  OF  THE  PALFREY  39 

But  she  was  old,  my  Adjutantial  palfrey. 

In  front  no  longer  but  in  rear  to-day. 
Behind  the  bicycles,  and  not  at  all  free 
To  be  familiar  with  the  General's  grey. 
She  walks  in  shame  with  all  those  misan- 
thropes, 
The  sad  pack-animals  who  have  no  hopes. 
But  must  by  men  be  led  about  on  ropes. 
Condemned  till  death  to  carry  S.A.A., 

And  bombs,  and  beef,  and  officers'  valises ; 

And  I  at  eve  have  marked  my  wistful  mare 

By    thronging    dumps    where    cursing    never 

ceases 

And  rations  come,  for  oft  she  brings  them 

there, 

Patient,   aloof ;    and   when   the  shrapnel 

dropp'd 
And    the   young   mules    complained    and 

kicked  and  hopp'd. 
She  only   stood   unmoved,  with   one   leg 
propp'd, 
As  if  she  heard  it  not  or  did  not  care ; 

Or  heard,  maybe,  but  hoped  to  get  a  Blighty ; 

For  on  her  past  she  lately  seemed  to  brood. 
And  dreamed  herself  once  more  among  the 
mighty, 

By  grooms  beloved  and  reverently  shoed ; 


40  THE  BOMBER  GIPSY 

But  now  she  has  no  standing  in  the  corps. 
And  Death  itself  would  hardly  be  a  bore. 
Save  that,   although  she    carries  me  no 
more, 
'Tis  something  still  to  carry  up  my  food. 


"THE    CHAIN    OF    RESPONSIBILITY" 

("  These,  aided  by  their  staffs  and  assistants, 
convey  his  will  to  .  .  .  subordinates  under 
them,  each  of  whom  carries  it  down  still  lower, 
until  eventually  all  ranks  are  controlled  by 
it." — Field  Service  Regulations.) 

All    night    the    tempest    howled    about    the 

camp. 
And   through   the   tent   flaps   filtered    in   the 

damp. 
The  Brigadier  woke  up  and  sa^v  no  sun ; 
His  eggs  were  cold  ;  his  bacon  was  not  done  ; 
And,  to  express  his  reasonable  pique 
At  being  born  into  a  world  so  bleak. 
He  spake  as  tartly  as  a  General  can 
To  ]\Iajor  Thingummy,  his  right-hand  man  ; 
Wlio,  well  aware  no  negligence  of  his 
Deserved    just    then    these    high-toned    blas- 
phemies, 
Took  horse  and  galloped  with  a  heart  in  flame 
Till  he  encountered  Colonel  Whatshisname  ; 
To  whom  in  terais  not  reverent  but  frank. 
Such  as  to  persons  of  superior  rank, 
But  not  upon  the  Staff,  the  Staff  may  use. 
The  Major  stingingly  expressed  his  views 
41 


42  THE  BOIMBER  GIPSY 

On  how  the  Colonel  or  his  dastard  force 
Had  for  a  week  possessed  an  extra  horse. 
The  Colonel,  lamb-like,  heard  the  harsh  critique 
(He  simply  could  not  trust  himself  to  speak). 
But,  spurring  home,  not  lamb-like  in  the  least. 
Addressed  his  Adjutant  about  the  beast ; 
Who,  hushed  and  hmt,  confessed  the  horrid 

crime 
(But  knew   his   chief  had   known   it  all   the 

time). 
Went  out  and  sought  for  somebody  to  err. 
And  found,  of  course,  the  Transport  Officer, 
A  happy  person,  who  from  day  to  day 
Did  all  his  duties  in  the  wrongest  way — 
Yet,  gentle  youth,  however  wild  his  whim, 
Not  often  people  could  be  cross  with  him. 
But,  in  this  case,  so  mortified  his  mind. 
The  Adjutant  was  pleased  to  be  unkind. 
The  astonished  victim,  on  the  hallowed  plan. 
Relieved  his  feelings  on  the  nearest  man. 
And  duly  visited  with  words  of  doom 
An  unattractive  but  contented  groom, 
With  tuneful  sibilance  and  studious  care 
Engaged  in  polishing  the  surplus  mare  ; 
His  whistle  finished,  and  with  needless  force 
He  raised   his  boot  and  kicked   the  smiUng 

horse 
Under  the  belly — and  it  smiled  no  more  .  .  . 
And  one  more  day  was  added  to  the  War. 


TO  THE  REGIMENT 

A  Christmas  Message 

So    Christmas   comes   and   finds   you   yet   in 
Inlanders, 
And  all  is  mud  and  messiness  and  sleet. 
And    men     have    temperatures    and     horses 
glanders, 
And    Brigadiers    have    trouble    with    their 
feet. 
And  life  is  bad  for  Company-Commanders, 
And  even  Thomas's  is  not  so  sweet. 

Now  cooks  for  kindle- wood  would  give  great 
riches, 

And  in  the  dixies  the  pale  stew  congeals, 
And  ration-parties  are  not  free  from  hitches, 

But  all  night  circle  like  performing  seals, 
Till  morning  breaks  and  everybody  pitches 

Into  a  hole  some  other  person's  meals. 

Now  regiments  huddle  over  last  week's  ashes, 
And  pray  for  coal  and  sedulously  "  rest  " 
43 


44  THE  BOMBER  GIPSY 

Where   rain   and   wind   contemn   the   empty 
sashes, 

And  blue  lips  frame  the  faint  heroic  jest, 
Till  some  near  howitzer  goes  off  and  smashes 

The  only  window  that  the  town  possessed. 

The    lean    mule     strains,     the    limbers    lip 
crevasses. 
And   roads   are  black  with  cookers  in   the 
ditch ; 
And  men  sleep  warmlier  who  sleep  in  masses, 

And  peers  confess  the  not  inglorious  itch, 
Or  get,  like  teeth,  extracted  from  morasses — 
Nor  could  their  Ma's  distinguish  which  is 
which. 

Yet    somehow    Christmas    in    your    souls    is 
stirring. 
And  Colonels  now  less  viciously  upbraid 
Their  Transport  Officers,  however  erring. 
And  sudden  signals  issue  from  Brigade 
To  say  next  Tuesday  Christmas  is  occurring, 
And    what    arrangements    have    Battalions 
made  ? 

And  then,  maybe,  while  every  one  discusses 
On  what  rich  foods  their  dear  commands 
shall  dine. 

And  (most  efficiently)  the  Padre  fusses 

About  the  birds,  the  speeches,  and  the  wine, 


TO  THE  REGIMENT  45 

The  Corps  Commander  sends  a  crowd  of  buses 
To  whisk  you  off  to  Christmas  in  the  hne. 

You  make  no  moan,  nor  hint  at  how  you're 
faring, 
And  here  in  turn  we  try  to  hide  our  woe, 
With  taxis  mutinous,  and  Tubes-  so  wearing, 

And  who  can  tell  where  all  the  matches  go  ? 
And    all    our   doors    and    windows    want    re- 
pairing, 
But  can   we  get  a  man   to   mend   them  ? 
No. 

The  dustman  visits  not ;   we  can't  get  castor ; 
In    vain    are    parlour-maids    and    plumbers 
sought ; 
And  human  intellect  can  scarcely  master 
The    time    when    beer    may    lawfully    be 
bought, 
Or  calculate  how  cash  can  go  much  faster. 
And  if  one's  butcher's  acting  as  he  oujrht. 


Our  old  indulgences  are  now  not  cricket ; 

Whate'er  one  does  some  Minister  will  cuss; 
In  Tube  and  Tram  young  ladies  punch  one's 
ticket. 

With  whom  one  can't  be  cross  or  querulous  ; 
All  things  are  different,  but  still  we  stick  it, 

And  humbly  hope  we  help  a  little  thus. 


46  THE  BOIMBER  GIPSY 

So,  FelloAv-sufferers,  we  give  you  greeting — 
All  luck,  all  laughter,  and  an  end  of  wars  ! 

And  just  to  strengthen  you  for  Fritz's  beating, 
I'm  sending  out  a  parcel  from  the  Stores  ; 

They  mean  to  stop  my  annual  over-eatings 
But  it  will  comfort  me  to  think  of  yours. 


ZERO 

("  Zero-hour  " — commonly  known  as  "  Zero  " 
— is  the  hour  fixed  for  the  opening  of  an  Infantry 
attack.) 

I  WOKE  at  dawn  and  flung  the  window  wide. 

Behind  the  hedge  the  lazy  river  ran  ; 
The  dusky  barges  idled  down  the  tide  ; 

In  tiie  laburnum  tree  the  birds  began  ; 
And  it  was  May,  and  half  the  world  in  flower ; 
I    saw    the    sun    creep    over    an    Eastward 
brow, 
And    thought,    "  It    may    be,    this    is    Zero- 
hour  ; 
Somewhere     the     lads     are     '  going     over ' 
now." 

Somewhere    the   guns    speak   sudden   on   the 
height. 
And    build    for   miles    their    battlement   of 
fire ; 
Somewhere    the   men    that    shivered    all    the 
night 
Peer  anxious  forth  and  scramble  through  the 
wire, 

47 


48  THE  BOMBER  GIPSY 

Swarm  slowly  out  to  where  the  Maxims  bark. 
And  green  and  red  the  panic  rockets  rise  ; 

And  Hell  is  loosed,  and  shyly  sings  a  lark, 
And  the  red  sun  climbs  sadly  up  the  skies. 

Now  they   have  won   some   sepulchred   Gav- 
relle. 
Some   shattered   homes   in   their  own  dust 
concealed ; 
Now  no  Boche  troubles  them  or  any  shell. 

But  almost  quiet  holds  the  thankful  field, 
While  men  draw  breath,  and  down  the  Arras 
road 
Come  the  slow  mules  with  battle's  dreary 
stores. 
And  there  is  time  to  see  the  womided  stowed. 
And   stretcher-squads    besiege   the  doctors' 
doors. 

Then  belches  Hell  anew.    And  all  day  long 

The  afflicted  place  drifts  heavenward  in  dust. 
All  day  the  shells  shriek  out  their  devils'  song, 
All  day  men  cling  close  to  the  earth's  charred 
crust. 
Till,  in  the  dusk,  the  Huns  come  on  again. 
And,  like  some  sluice,  the  watchers  up  the 
hill 
Let  loose  the  guns  and  flood  the  soil  with  slain. 
And  they  go  back,  but  scourge  the  village 
still. 


ZERO  49 

I  see  it  all.     I  see  the  same  brave  souls 

To-night,    to-morrow,    though   the    half   be 
gone, 
Deafened  and  dazed,  and  hunted  from  their 
holes. 

Helpless  and  hunger-sick,  but  holding  on ; 
I  shall  be  happy  all  to-morrow  here, 

But  not  till  night  shall  they  go  up  the  steep. 
And,  nervous  now  because  the  end  is  near. 

Totter  at  last  to  quietness  and  to  sleep. 

And  men  who  find  it  easier  to  forget 

In  England  here,  among  the  daffodils, 
That    Eastward    there    are    fields    unflowered 

yet. 

And  murderous  May-days  on  the  unlovely 
hills- 
Let  them  go  walking  where  the  land  is  fair. 
And  watch  the  breaking  of  a  morn  in  May, 
And  think,  "  It  may  be  Zero  over  there," 

But    here    is    Peace " — and    kneel    awhile, 
and  pray. 


THE  MISCHIEF-MAKERS 

Ah  me !  how  peaceful  was  the  sector, 

How  like  a  home  these  trenches  were. 
Where  never  a  Hun  would  hate  or  hector. 

And  only  swallows  cleft  the  air ; 
Where  always  poppies  blew  above  the  lines. 

And  little  mice  ran  shyly  through  the  corn  ; 
Where    food    was    frequent,    with    expensive 
wines, 

And  Sam  Browne  belts  were  worn. 

And  if  through  some  ingenious  crevice 
We  marked  a  head  of  hostile  type. 
We  neither  harassed  him  mth  "  heavies  " 

Nor  fired  our  telescopic  hyp. ; 
But  rather,  like  some  rare  and  precious  prize. 
Preserved  the  man,  and  showed  him  to  the 
Staff, 
Who  looked  at  him  with  large,  important  eyes. 
But  did  no  sort  of  strafe. 

And  he,  detecting  any  Tommies, 
Regarded  them  with  some  disdain. 

But  seldom  spoiled  their  youthful  promise, 
Nor  caused  them  any  needless  pain  ; 

50 


THE  MISCHIEF-MAKERS         51 

While,  if  at  night  inimical  patrols 

By  some  mischance  came  sudden  face  to  face 
They  glowered  fiercely  from  adjacent  holes. 
But  nothing  else  took  place. 

And  then,  from  some  polemic  quarter, 

Some  very  earnest  camjD  in  Kent, 
Came  out,  alack  !   a  baleful  Mortar, 

With  crowds  of  men  on  murder  bent ; 
Radiant  tliey   came   because  the   drills   were 
done. 
With   stacks   of  shells   and   valour  all   too 
vast — 
They  only  longed  to  load  their  blessed  gim 
And  let  it  off  at  last. 

We  told  them  how  the  Hun  was  purring. 

But  would  not  be  if  they  began  ; 
We  said  their  shells,  however  erring, 

Were  certain  to  annoy  the  man  ; 
We  showed  them  spots  more  worthy  of  their 
arts 
Far  on  the  flank  or  far  away  in  rear  ; 
We  said  they  swarmed  in  other  people's  parts, 
But  there  were  none  just  here. 

But  it  was  vain.     With  grieved  impatience 
They  hid  themselves  in  some  huge  trough, 

Interred  their  gun  with  incantations. 
And  madly  loosed  the  monster  off. 


52  THE  BOIMBER  GIPSY 

Straight  on  the  sound,   while  yet  the  great 
bomb  boomed, 
Five    awful    Minnies    whistled    down    the 
wind, 
And  men  for  miles  immediately  assumed 
A  hostile  frame  of  mind. 

Observers  woke  and  peered  through  prisms. 

And  every  sort  of  specialist 
Produced  his  hideous  mechanisms, 

And  made  it  penal  to  exist. 
The  sniper  snipes,  impervious  to  appeals, 

Immense  projectiles  hurtle  to  and  from, 
And  no  one  now  can  count  upon  his  meals — 
Even  the  bombers  bomb. 

It  may  be  they  will  one  day  leave  us — 

Their  stock  of  shells  may  sometimes  cease. 
And  this  charred  region,  now  so  grievous. 

May  see  some  slight  return  of  peace  ; 
But  never  quite  can  hate  be  banished  hence, 
'Twill  never  be  the  old  good-natured  zone. 
Where  war  was  war,   but  people   had   some 
sense — ■ 

The  place  has  lost  its  tone. 


THE  ROMANCERS 

{The   New   Statesman  complains  that  War 
Correspondents  are  not  sufficiently  realistic.) 

Ah  !  no,  you  hardly  catch  the  thunder, 

But  still  in  that  familiar  mode, 
Reiterate  with  childlike  wonder 

That  guns  go  off  and  shells  explode  ; 
Still  simple  seem,  as  penned  in  your  report. 
These   desperate   movements    of   a   million 
men, 
As  who  should  say,  "  They  got  in  at  Earl's 
Court, 
And  came  to  High  Street,  Ken." 

We  weary  of  that  land  of  banter 

Where  armies  dwell  in  one  long  purr, 
When  not  assaulting,  at  the  canter. 

By  methods  which  can  scarcely  err ; 
We  do  not  share  your  manifest  surprise 

That  wounded  men,  receding  from  the  fray. 
Should  not  come  down  with  sorrow  in  their 
eyes 
But  be  a  little  gay  ; 

5  53 


54  THE  BOIVIBER  GIPSY 

We  want  to  hear  of  human  terrors, 

The  tactics  which  turned  out  a  frost. 
The  men  who  made  enormous  errors, 

The  working-parties  nobly  lost : 
Tell  us  of  rations  which  did  not  arrive, 

Of  cookers  ditched  and  mules  that  are  no 
more, 
And  let  us  think  one  Boche  is  still  alive 
To  carry  on  the  war. 

We  want  to  hear  the  homely  details 
Of  how  men  wash  in  shrapnel-hats. 
The  kind  of  beer  the  Frenchman  retails 

And  what  they  do  about  the  rats, 
And  not  those  super-myths,  the  "  boys  "  who 
bask 
In  seas  of  shells  or  frolic  in  the  mud. 
And,  at  the  end,  invariably  ask  , 

For  further  deeds  of  blood. 

And  yet,  as  your  romances  worsen 

I  do  not  hold  you  most  to  blame. 
For  that  imaginative  person, 

The  British  private,  makes  the  same  ; 
And  when  I  read  how  proud  you  were  to  speak 

"  With  certain  units  resting  in  their  barns," 
I  seem  to  see  them,  every  tongue  in  cheek, 
f^       Filling  you  up  with  yams. 


"AT  DAWN" 

'E  wasn't  like  us  lucky  ones 

'Oo  thinks  of  nothing  much  but  beer, 
Though  'e  was  mad  to  meet  the  'Uns 

(They  always  is  until  they're  'ere)  ; 
It's  'ard  to  think  of  'ow  e's  gorn. 

And  'ow  I've  joked  with  Bill  and  'im 
About  us  getting  shot  at  dorn, 

And  now  it's  'appened — and  to  Jim  ! 

There's  some  as  can't  'elp  feeling  fear. 

And  some  as  don't  know  what  it  is. 
And  why  they  get  the  Cross  out  'ere 

Is  one  of  Gawd's  own  mysteries  ; 
And  'ow  'e  stuck  it  as  'e  did 

But  never  'ad  a  smell  of  such  : 
'E  was  as  keen  as  any  kid, 

But  'e  imagined  things  too  much. 

And  when  it  came  to  stunts — 'g  ran. 
And  chucked  away  'is  blooming  life. 

They  say  'e  took  it  like  a  man, 

But  that  don't  seem  to  'elp  'is  wife  ; 
55 


56  THE  BOMBER  GIPSY 

She  might  'ave  dreamed  'er  soldier-lad 
'Ad  copped  a  packet  full  of  pride 

Like  'arf  the  regiment,  fighting  mad — 
But  Gawd  !  they've  told  'er  'ow  '<?  died. 


PATROLS 

The  Scout  Officer  soliloquizes  : — 

The  lights  begin  to  leap  along  the  lines. 

Leap  up  and  hang  and  swoop  and  sputter 
out ; 

A  bullet  hits  a  wiring-post  and  whines  ; 
/  wish  to  God  that  I  was  not  a  Scout  /• 


How  fair  it  seemed  in  far-off  Dorset  days 
To    leave    my    envious    fellows    at    their 
drill, 

To  seek  adventure  in  the  forest  ways. 
And  follow  footsteps  over  Badbury  Hill ; 


Or  in  a  fight  to  spy  upon  the  foe 

With  reckless  courage  from   the  oak-tree's 
heart. 
To  stalk  some  sentinel  and  lay  him  low. 
Or  slip  past  pickets  in  the  grocer's  cart  ! 
57 


58  THE  BOMBER  GIPSY 

Ah !  those  were  days.    And  then  I  loved  the 
trade; 
Far  other  is  this  battle  in  the  waste, 
Wlierein,   each  night,   though   not  of  course 
afraid, 
I  wriggle  round  with  ill-concealed  distaste; 

Where  who  can  say  what  menace  is  not  nigh. 
What    ambushed     foe,     what    unexploded 
crump, 

And  the  glad  worm,  aspiring  to  the  sky, 
Emerges  suddenly  and  makes  you  jump. 

Where  either  all  is  still — so  still  one  feels 

That   something   huge   must   presently   ex- 
plode— 
And  back,  far  back,  is    heard    the    noise    of 
wheels 
From  Prussian  waggons  on  the  Douai  road  ; 

And  flares  shoot  upward  with  a  startling  hiss 
And  fall,  and  flame  intolerably  close. 

So  that  it  seems  no  living  man  could  miss — 
How  huge  my  head  must  look,  my  legs  how 
gross  ! — 

Or  the  live  air  is  full  of  droning  hums 
And  cracking  whips  and  whispering  snakes 
of  fire. 

And  a  loud  buzz  of  conversation  comes 

From  Simpson's  party  putting  out  some  wire  ; 


PATROLS  59 

Or  else — as  when  some  soloist  is  done 

And  the  hushed  orchestra  may  now  begin — 

A  sudden  rage  inflames  the  placid  Hun 
And  scouts  lie  naked  in  a  world  of  din. 


The  sullen  bomb  dissolves  in  singing  shapes  ; 

The  whizz-bang  jostles  it — too  fast  to  flee ; 
Machine-guns  chatter  like  demented  apes — 

And,  goodness,  can  it  all  be  meant  for  me  ? 


It  can  and  is.    And  such  are  small  affairs 
Compared   with   Tompkins   and    his    Le\\ns 
gun. 

Or  eager  folk  who  play  about  with  flares, 
And,  like  as  not,  mistake  me  for  a  Hun  ; 

Compared   with    when    some   gunner,    having 
dined, 
To  show  his  guest  the  glories  of  his  art 
"  Poops   off   a  round   or   two,"    which   burst 
behind. 
But  fail  to  drown  the  beating  of  my  heart. 


Sweet  to  all  soldiers  is  the  rearward  view  ; 

To  infanteers  how  grand  the  gunners'  case  ! 
And  I  suppose  men  pine  at  G.H.Q. 

For  the  rich  ease  of  people  at  the  Base, 


6o  THE  BOMBER  GIPSY 

To  me  is  sweet  this  mean  and  noisome  ditch, 
When  on  my  belly  I  must  issue  out 

Into  the  night,  inscrutable  as  pitch — 
/  wish  to  God  that  I  was  not  a  Scout ! 


THE  DESERTERS 

Where  are  the  maids  that  used  to  lay  my 
table, 
And  cook  my  meals  and  (sometimes)  scrub 
the  floor  ? 
Florrie  and  Maud  and  Emily  and  Mabel, 
All,  all  are  gone  to  prosecute  the  war  : 
In  reeking  vaults  and  mountain  dells 
They    tend     their     sheep     or    fill     their 

shells, 
While  my  wife  answers  all  the  bells, 
And  no  one  shines  my  Sam  Browne  any 
more. 

Where  is  Elizabeth,  whose  eyes  were  argent  ? 

Ah,  what  a  home  her  hospital  must  be  ! 
Winnie's  a  "  Waac,"  and  bound  to  be  a 
Sergeant 
Judging  from  how  she  dominated  me 
(Only  I  hope  she  never  stoops 
To  talk  like  that  to  Lady  troops)  ; 
And  Maud,  who  dropped  so  many  soups. 
What  does  she  do  with  bombs  and  T.N.T.  ? 
6i 


62  THE  BOAffiER  GIPSY 

Our  car  stands  starving  in  the  dusty  garage. 

But  Mabel  drives  a  whacking  limousine  ; 
And    when    they    sprinkle    us    with    bits    of 
barrage. 
We  know  that  much  of  it  was  made  by 
Jean. 
Our  income  slowly  disappears, 
While  they  get  more  than  Brigadiers — 
No  wonder  now  the  agent  sneers, 
"  You  can't  get  girls  to  come  to  Tuniham 
Green  !  " 

Do  they  look  back,   and  hope  that   we  are 
happy. 
With  no  one  left  to  fuss  about  our  food. 
And  when  some  foreman  is  extremely  snappy, 
Recall  with  tears  my  courtlier  attitude  ? 
Rather,  I  ween,  with  mirthful  hoots 
They  think  of  Master  cleaning  boots. 
And  thank  their  stars,  the  little  brutes ! 
They  bear  no  more  the  yoke  of  housemaid - 
hood. 

And  what  will  happen  when  the  Boche  goes 
under, 
And    all    these    women    fling    their    swords 
away  ? 
Will    the   dear   maids    come   back    to    us,    I 
wonder  ? 
Shall  I  be  able  to  afford  their  pay  ? 


THE  DESERTERS  63 

And  will  they  want  Munition  rates  ? 
Ah,  who  can  read  the  ruthless  Fates  ? — 
Meanwhile,  we  wash  the  dirty  plates, 
And  do  our  whack  as  willingly  as  they. 


FREE  MEALS 

When  William  had  not  crossed  the  Rhine 

And  food  could  still  be  found, 
How  often  did  we  all  decline, 
If  some  one  asked  us  out  to  dine, 

Upon  the  smallest  ground  ! 
Because  his  talk  was  imbecile, 

Because  his  face  was  plain, 
One  used  to  miss  the  loveliest  meal 

And  not  get  asked  again. 

Less  oft  to-day  do  men  endow 

Their  famished  friends  with  food ; 
Free  dinners  are  free  dinners  now. 
And  to  refuse,  as  all  allow. 

Is  rather  mad  than  rude  ; 
While  prudent  folk,  with  frank  delight. 

Both  indigent  and  rich. 
When  asked  to  "  Come  and  dine  some  night," 

Make  answer,  "  Tliank  you  ;   which  ?  " 

My  old  friend  Hubert,  like  some  bee, 

From  host  to  host  doth  flit 
For  dinner,  lunch,  and  even  tea 
(I  do  believe  he'd  breakfast  free 

If  he  could  manage  it)  ; 
64 


FREE  MEALS  65 

Till,  having  drained  all  other  flowers 

And  reached  an  anxious  point. 
He  flies  to  Streatham  and  devours 

His  Aunt  Jane's  Sunday  joint. 

In  olden  days  he  only  knew 

Those  in  the  social  swim, 
But  now  he  takes  a  broader  view 
And  feeds  with  all  (though  very  few 

Have  ever  fed  with  him)  ; 
Only,  I  think,  he  has  a  doubt, 

Only  the  world  looks  grey. 
When  different  people  ask  him  out 

To  dinner  on  one  day. 

And  surely  thus  shall  strife  conclude 

When  rations  get  so  small 
That  peers  with  peasantry  have  chewed, 
And  men  are  glad  to  take  their  food 

With  anyone  at  all ; 
Though,  at  the  worst,  I  don't  expect 

The  War  will  thus  be  done  ; 
A  starving  world  would  still  object 

To  eating  with  the  Hun. 


THE  WAR-DREAIVI 

I  WISH  I  did  not  dream  of  France, 
And  spend  my  nights  in  mortal  dread 

On  miry  flats  where  whizz-bangs  dance 
And  star-shells  hover  o'er  my  head. 

And  sometimes  wake  my  anxious  spouse 

By  making  shrill  excited  rows 

Because  it  seems  a  hundred  "  hows  " 
Are  barraging  the  bed. 

I  never  fight  with  tigers  now 
Or  know  the  old  nocturnal  mares — 

The  house  on  fire,  the  frantic  cow. 
The  cut-throat  coming  up  the  stairs 

Would  be  a  treat ;  I  almost  miss 

That  feeling  of  paralysis 

With  which  one  climbed  a  precipice. 
Or  ran  away  from  bears. 

Nor  do  I  dream  the  pleasant  days 

That  sometimes  soothe  the  worst  of  wars, 

Of  omelettes  and  estaminets 
And  smiling  maids  at  cottage  doors  ; 
66 


THE  WAR-DREAM  67 

But  in  a  vague  unbounded  waste 
For  ever  hide  with  futile  haste 
From  5.9's  precisely  placed, 

And  all  the  time  it  pours. 

Yet,  if  I  showed  colossal  phlegm, 

Or  kept  enormous  crowds  at  bay. 
And  sometimes  won  the  D.C.M., 

It  might  inspire  me  for  the  fray  ; 
But,  looking  back,  I  do  not  seem 
To  recollect  a  single  dream 
In  which  I  did  not  simply  scream 
And  try  to  run  away. 

And  when  I  wake  with  flesh  that  creeps. 

The  only  solace  I  can  see 
Is  thinking,  if  the  Prussian  sleeps. 

What  hideous  visions  his  must  be  ! 
Can  all  my  dreams  of  gore  and  guns 
Be  half  as  rotten  as  the  Hun's  ? 
I  like  to  think  his  blackest  ones 

Are  when  he  dreams  of  me. 


THE  PASSING  OF  THE  COD'S  HEAD 

(A  Romance  of  Chiswick  Mall.) 

It  was  because  the  dustman  did  not  come  ; 

It  was  because  our  cat  was  overfed, 
And,  gorged  with  some  superior  pabulum. 

Declined  to  touch  the  cod's  disgusting  head. 
It  was  because  the  weather  was  too  warm 

To  hide  the  horror  in  the  refuse-bin, 
And  too  intense  the  perfume  of  its  form, 

My  wife  commanded  me  to  do  the  sin. 
To  take  and  cast  it  in  the  twinkling  Thames — 
A    practice    which    the    neighbourhood    con- 
demns. 

So  on  the  midnight,  with  a  strong  cigar 

And  scented  handkerchief,  I  tiptoed  near. 
But  felt  the  exotic  fragrance  from  afar  ; 

I  thought  of  Arthur  and  Sir  Bedivere  : 
And  it  seemed  best  to  leave  it  on  the  plate. 

So  strode  I  back  and  told  my  curious  spouse, 
"  I  heard  the  high  tide  lap  along  the  Eyot, 

And  the  wild  water  at  the  barges'  bows." 
She  said,  "  O  treacherous  !     O  heart  of  clay  ! 
Go  back  and  throw  the  smelly  thing  away." 
68 


PASSING  OF  THE  COD'S  HEAD  69 

Thereat  I  seized  it,  and  with  guilty  shoon 

Stole  out  indignant  to  the  water's  marge  ; 
Its  eyes   like  emeralds  caught  the  affronted 
moon  ; 

The  stars  conspired  to  make  the  thing  look 
large ; 
Surely  all  Chiswick  would  perceive  my  shame  ! 

I  clutched  the  indecency  and  whirled  it  round 
And  flung  it  from  me  like  a  torch  in  flame. 

And  a  great  wailing  swept  across  the  sound. 
As  though  the  deep  were  calling  back  its  kith. 
I  said,  "  It  will  go  down  to  Hammersmith  ; 

"  It  will  go  down  beyond  the  Chelsea  flats. 

And  hang  with  barges  under  Battersea, 
Will  press  past  Wapping  with  decaying  cats, 

And  the  dead  dog  shall  bear  it  company  ; 
Small  bathing  boys  shall  feel  its  clammy  prod, 

And  think  some  jelly-fish  has  fled  the  surge  ; 
And  so  'twill  win  to  where  the  tribe  of  cod 

In  its  own  ooze  intones  a  fitting  dirge. 
And  after  that  some  false  and  impious  fish 
Will  likely  have  it  for  a  breakfast  dish." 

The  morning  dawned.     The  tide  had  stripped 
the  shore. 
And  that  foul  shape  I  fancied  so  remote 
Lay  stark  below,  just  opposite  next  door  ! 
Who  would  have  said  a  cod's  head  could  not 

float? 
6 


7o  THE  BOMBER  GIPSY 

No  more  my  neighbour  in  his  garden  sits  ; 

My  callers  now  regard  the  view  with  groans  ; 
For  tides  may  roll  and  rot  the  fleshly  bits, 

But  what  shall  mortify  those  ageless  bones  ? 
How  shall  I  bear  to  hear  my  grandsons  say, 
"  Look  at  the  fish  that  Granddad  threw  away  "  ? 


THE  HELLES  HOTEL 

When  I  consider  how  my  life  is  spent 

In  this  dark  world  of  sugar-cards  and  queues, 

Where  none  but  babes  get  proper  nourishment 
And  meanly  men  remunerate  the  Muse, 

I  dream  of  holidays  when  Peace  is  sent, 
But  not  such  dreams  as  common  persons 
use — 

I  know  a  headland  at  the  Dardanelles 

Where  I  shall  build  the  best  of  all  hotels. 

I  know  a  cliff-top  where  the  wealth}'^  guest 
From  languid  balconies  shall  each  day  view 

Far  over  Samothrace  the  tired  sun  rest 
And  melt,  a  marvel,  into  Europe's  blue. 

To  come  back  blushing  out  of  Asia's  breast 
And  hang,  at  noon,  divided  'twixt  the  two. 

While  shuttered  casements  looking  out  to  Troy 

Shall  faintly  stimulate  the  Fifth-Form  boy. 

There  shall  they  have,  with  those  delicious  skies, 
All  that  rich  ease  for  which  the  Armies  prayed. 

Nor  dust  nor  drought  nor  shortage  of  supplies. 
But  long  cool  glasses  in  the  cypress'  shade. 

And  starlight  suppers,  and,  of  course,  no  flies. 
And  in  their  bathing-place  no  mules  decayed  ; 

Shall  swim  in  the  ^Egean,  if  they  want. 

Or  go  and  do  ib  in  the  Hellespont. 
71 


72  THE  BOMBER  GIPSY 

There  shall  they  hear  from  olives  overhead 
The  cricket  call  to  them  and  no  shells  sing, 

While  painted  lizards  flash  before  their  tread 
And  in  green  gullies  trills  the  sudden  Spring  ; 

Shall  walk,  unblinded  by  disease  and  dread. 
Where  myrtle  beckons  and  rock-roses  cling. 

And  find  it  difficult  to  tell  their  aunts 

The  proper  names  of  all  these  funny  plants. 

There  shall  they  see  across  the  storied  Sound 
Some  snow-peak  glisten  like  a  muffled  star. 

And  murmur,  "  That's  Olympus,  I'll  be  bound," 
And  tread  old  battle-fields  where  vineyards 
are ; 

With   scarred   young   veterans   they'll    amble 
round 
The  Turks'  entanglements  at  Sedd-el-Bahr, 

And  practise  at  a  reasonable  charge 

Heroic  landings  in  the  hotel  barge. 

But  there  are  dates  when  tourists  shall  be 
banned. 

High  dates  of  April  and  of  early  June, 
When  only  they  that  bear  the  Helles  brand, 

A  few  tired  Captains  and  the  Tenth  Platoon, 
Shall  see  strange  shadows  in  that  flowery  land 

And  ghostly  cruisers  underneath  the  moon  : 
They  only  then  shall  scale  the  sunny  hills. 
And  they  alone  shall  have  no  heavy  bills. 


DEAD-MULE  TREE 
A  Song  of  Wisdom 

It's  a  long  step  round  by  the  Crucifix  for  a 

man  with  a  mighty  load. 
But  there's  hell  to  pay  where  the  dead  mule 

lies  if  you  go  by  the  Bailleul  road, 
Where   the  great   shells   sport   like   an   angry 

child  with  a  litter  of  broken  bricks. 
So  we  donH  go  donn  by  the  Dead-Mule  Tree^ 

but  round  by  the  Crucifix. 

But  the  wild  young  men  come  bubbhng  out 

and  look  for  an  early  grave  ; 
They  light  their  pipes  on  the  parapet  edge  and 

think  they're  being  brave  ; 
They  take  no  heed  of  the  golden  rules  that  the 

long,  long  yeai-s  have  taught, 
And  they   WILL  go  down  by  the  Dead-Mule 

Tree  when  they  know  that  nobody  ought. 

And  some  of  us  old  ones  feci  some  days  that 

life  is  a  tiring  thing. 
And  we  show  our  heads  in  the  same  place  twice, 

we  stand  in  a  trench  and  sing  ; 
73 


74  THE  BOMBER  GIPSY 

We  lark  about  like  a  kid  just  out  and  shatter 

a  hundred  rules, 
But  we  never  go  down  by  the  Dead-Mule  Tree, 

we  aren't  such  perfect  fools. 

And  the  War  goes  on  and  the  men  go  down, 

and,  be  he  young  or  old, 
An  English  man  with  an  English  gmi  is  worth 

his  weight  in  gold. 
And  I  hate  to  think  of  the  fine  young  lads  who 

laughed  at  you  and  me — 
Who  wouldn't  go  round  by  the  Crucifix  but  died 

at  tiie  Dead-Mule  Tree. 


THE  COOKERS 

A  Song  of  the  Transport 

The  Officers'  kit  and  the  long  low  limbers. 

The  Maltese  cart  and  the  mules  go  by 
With  a  sparkle  of  paint  and  speckless  timbers. 

With  a  glitter  of  steel  to  catch  the  eye  ; 
But  the  things  I  like  are  the  four  black  chimneys 

And   the   smoke-tails    scattering   down   the 
wind, 
For    these    are    the    Cookers,    the    Company 
Cookers, 

The  cosy  old  Cookers  that  crawl  behind. 

The  Company  Cooks  are  mired  and  messy. 
Their  cheeks  are  black  but  their  boots  are 
not ; 
The  Colonel  says  they  must  be  more  dressy. 

And  the  General  says  he'll  have  them  shot ; 
They    hang    their   packs    on    the    four    black 
chimneys, 
They're   a  grubby   disgrace,   but   we   don't 
mind 
As  long  as  the  Cookers,  the  jolly  black  Cookers, 
The  filthy  old  Cookers  are  close  behind. 
75 


76  THE  BOMBER  GIPSY 

For  it's  only  the  Cooks  can  make  us  perky 

When  the  road  is  rainy  and  cold  and  steep. 
When  the  songs  die  down  and  the  step  gets 
jerky, 
And  the  Adjutant's  horse  is  fast  asleep  ; 
And  it's  bad  to  look  back  for  the  four  black 
chimneys 
But  never  a  feather  of  smoke  to  find. 
For  it  means  that  the  Cookers,  the  crazy  old 
Cookers, 
The  rickety  Cookers  are  ditched  behind. 

The  Company  Cook  is  no  great  fighter 

And  there's  never  a  medal  for  him  to  wear. 
Though  he  camps    in    the   shell-swept  waste, 
poor  blighter, 

And  many  a  Cook  has  "  copped  it  "  there ; 
But  the  boys  go  over  on  beans  and  bacon. 

And  Tommy  is  best  when  Tommy  has  dined. 
So  here's  to  the  Cookers,  the  plucky  old  Cookers, 

And  the  sooty  old  Cooks  that  waddle  behind. 


THE  GERMAN  GRAVES 

I  WONDER  are  there  roses  still 

In  Ablain  St.  Nazaire, 
And  crosses  girt  with  daffodil 

In  that  old  garden  there. 
I  wonder  if  the  long  grass  waves 

With  wild-fiowers  just  the  same 
Where  Germans  made  their  soldiers'  graves 

Before  the  English  came  ? 

The  English  set  those  crosses  straight 

And  kept  the  legends  clean  ; 
The  English  made  the  wicket-gate 

And  left  the  garden  green  ; 
And  now  who  knows  what  regiments  dwell 

In  Ablain  St.  Nazaire  ? 
But  I  would  have  them  guard  as  well 

The  graves  we  guarded  there. 

So  do  not  tear  those  fences  up 
And  drive  your  waggons  through, 

Or  trample  rose  and  buttercup 
As  careless  feet  may  do  ; 
77 


78  THE  BOMBER  GIPSY 

For  I  have  friends  where  Germans  tread 

In  graves  across  the  Une, 
And  as  I  do  towards  their  dead 

So  may  they  do  to  mine. 

And  when  at  last  the  Prussians  pass 

Among  those  mounds  and  see 
The  reverent  cornflowers  crowd  the  grass 

Because  of  you  and  me, 
They'll  give  perhaps  one  humble  thought 

To  all  the  "  EngUsh  fools  " 
Who  fought  as  never  men  have  fought 

But  somehow  kept  the  rules. 


THE  WINDMILL 
A  Song  of  Victory 

Yes,  it  was  all  like  a  garden  glowing 

When  first  we  came  to  the  hill-top  there. 
And  we  laughed  to  know  that  the  Bosch  was 
going, 

And  laughed  to  know  that  the  land  was  fair  ; 
Acre  by  acre  of  green  fields  sleeping, 

Hamlets  hid  in  the  tufts  of  wood, 
And    out   of    the    trees   were    church-towers 
peeping, 

And  away  on  a  hillock  the  Windmill  stood. 

Then,  ah,  then,  Hwas  a  land  worth  winning. 
And  now  there  is  naught  hut  the  naked 
clay. 
But  I  can  remember  the  Windmill  spin- 
ning. 
And  the  Jour  sails  shone  in  the  sun  thai 
day. 

But  the  guns  came  after  and  tore  the  hedges 
And  stripped  the  spinneys  and  churned  the 
plain, 
And  a  man  walks  now  on  the  windy  ledges, 
And  looks  for  a  feather  of  green  in  vain  ; 
79 


8o  THE  BOMBER  GIPSY 

Acre  by  acre  the  sad  eye  traces 

The  rust-red  bones  of  the  earth  laid  bare. 
And  the  sign-posts  stand  in  the  market-places 

To  say  that  a  village  was  builded  there. 

But  better  the  Fretich  fields  stark  and 

dying 

Than  ripe  for  a  conqueror^ s  fat  content. 

And  I  can  remember  the  mill-sails  fiying. 

Yet  I  cheered  with  the  rest  zchen  the 

Windmill  went. 

Away  to  the  east  the  grass-land  surges 

Acre  by  acre  across  the  line. 
And  we  must  go  on  till  the  end  like  scourges. 
Though  the  wilderness  stretch  from  sea  to 
Rhine ; 
But  I  dream  some  days  of  a  great  reveille. 
When  the  buds  shall  burst  in  the  Blasted 
^^'ood, 
And  the  children  chatter  in  Death-Trap  Alley, 
And  a  windmill  stand  where  the  Windmill 
stood. 

And    we   that    remember    the    Windmill 
spinning. 
We  may  go  under,  but  not  in  vain. 
For  our  sons  shall  come  in  the  new  begin- 
ning 
A  nd  see  that  the  Windmill  spins  again. 


THE  GREEN  ESTAMINET 

The  old  men  sit  by  the  chimney-piece  and  drink 

the  jTood  red  wine 
And  tell  great  tales  of  the  Soixante-Dix  to  the 

men  from  the  English  line, 
And  Madame  sits  in  her  old  arm-chair  and  sighs 

to  herself  all  day — 
So  Madeleine  serves  the  soldiers  in  the  Green 

Estaminet. 

For  Madame  wishes  the  War  was  won  and  speaks 

of  a  strange  disease, 
And  Pierre  is  somewhere  about  Verdun,  and 

Albert  on  the  seas  ; 
Le  Patron,  'e  is  soldat  too,  but  long  time  prison- 

nier — 
So  Madeleine  serves  the  soldiers  in  the  Green 

Estaminet. 

She  creeps  downstairs  when  the  black  dawn 

scowls  and  helps  at  a  neighbour's  plough. 
She  rakes  the  midden  and  feeds  the  fowls  and 

milks  the  lonely  cow. 
She  mends  the  holes  in  the  Padre's  clothes  and 

keeps  his  billet  gay — 
And  she  also  serves  the  soldiers  in  the  Green 

Estaminet. 

8i 


82  THE  BOMBER  GIPSY 

The  smoke  grows  thick  and  the  wine  flows  free 

and  the  great  round  songs  begin, 
And  Madeleine  sings  in  her  heart,  maybe,  and 

welcomes  the  whole  world  in ; 
But  I  know  that  life  is  a  hard,  hard  thing,  and 

I  know  that  her  lips  look  grey. 
Though  she  smiles  as  she  serves  the  soldiers  in  the 

Green  Estaminet. 

But  many  a  tired  young  English  lad  has  learned 

his  lesson  there. 
To  smile  and  sing  when  the  world  looks  bad, 

"  for.  Monsieur,  c'est  la  guerre.''^ 
Has  drunk  her  honour  and  made  his  vow  to 

fight  in  the  same  good  way 
Thai  Madeleine  serves  the  soldiers  in  the  Green 

Estaminet. 

A  big  shell  came  on  a  windy  night,  and  half  of 

the  old  house  went. 
But  half  of  the  old  house  stands  upright,  and 

Mademoiselle's  content ; 
The  shells  still  fall  in  the  Square  sometimes, 

but  Madeleine  means  to  stay, 
So  Madeleine  serves   the  soldiers   still  in   the 

Green  Estaminet. 


COUVRONS 

Augustus  was  a  plucky  little  thing, 
But  so  ill-made  for  purposes  of  war 

That  never  a  crisis  could  persuade  the  King 
To  put  him  into  any  kind  of  corps  ; 

So,  failing  sadly  to  unsheathe  the  sword. 

He  got  a  billet  on  the  Drainage  Board. 

The    years    rolled    by.     His    friends    received 
V.C.'s, 
And  D.S.O.'s,  and  multitudes  of  Bars, 
And  all  their  clothes  were  covered  by  degrees 
With  braid  and  badge,  with  chevrons  and 
with  stars ; 
The  only  wear  that  showed  what  he  had  done 
Were  two  twin  elbows  shining  in  the  sun. 

And  then  the  coupons  came  ;  but  he  used  none. 
For  always  in  his  other  coat  they  lay, 

Or  else  he  had  not  heart  to  squander  one. 
And,  when  he  had,  all  meatless  was  the  day — 

A  common  tale,  but  this  is  what  is  sad. 

That  in  this  case  it  drove  the  young  man  mad. 
83 


84  THE  BOMBER  GIPSY 

Or  so  I  gather,  for  I  met  him  last 

With    four    strange    objects    to    his    sleeve 
attached ; 
He  said,  "  I  may  not  be  the  soldier-caste. 

But  nowhere  is  my  patriot  spirit  matched, 
Of  which  these  emblems  eloquently  speak, 
"  The  coupons  which  I  did  not  use  last  week" 


]MORAL 

When  all  the  land  was  waking  up  to  war 

And  thousands  rushed  to  put  a  tunic  on. 
Young  Jimmy  sat  in  drinking-shops  and  swore 
He'd  be  in  civvies  when  the  world  had  gone  ; 
He  had  no  use  for  patriotic  stuff, 

And  what  was  Belgium  when  a  man  had 
beer  ? 
"  Just  wait  until  they  take  you  by  the  scruff, 
But  never  volunteer.''^ 

Yet  next  week  saw  him  sweating  with  the  rest. 
Presenting  arms  and  padding  it  for  leagues ; 
He  did  the  rifle  business  with  a  zest. 

But  what  he  couldn't  stomach  was  fatigues  ; 

Yet  when  the  Sergeant  wanted  some  one  quick 

Young    Jimmy    was    the    fh'st    to    answer, 

"  Here  !  " 

Though  afterwards  he'd  say  it  made  him  sick — 

"  Don't  ever  volunteer.''^ 

Young  Jimmy  was  a  terror  at  the  Front 
For  digging  jobs  and  bombing  and  patrols. 

Though  all  along  he  said,  "  A  stunt's  a  stunt, 
But  don't  go  asking  for  a  brace  of  holes." 
7  85 


86  THE  BOMBER  GIPSY 

And  then  one  night  he  tried  too  big  a  thing — 

I  saw  him  on  his  stretcher  at  the  rear — 
And  what  I  think  the  lad  was  whispering 

Was,  "  Never  volunteer.'''' 

Old  soldiers  sit  and  grumble  in  the  bams 

And  tell  their  wisdom  to  the  young  men 
round, 
And  this  is  all  the  burden  of  their  yarns — 
"  Don't    do    a    blessed    thhig    until    you're 
bound  "  ; 
But  when  there's  something  dirty  to  be  done 
It's  wondrous  how  this  wisdom  disappears ; 
Of  all  the  multitude  I  don't  know  one 
Who  never  volunteers. 


THE  TIDE 

To  THE  Royal  Naval  Division 
April,  1918. 

This  is  a  last  year's  map  ; 

I  know  it  all  so  well, 
Stream  and  gully  and  trench  and  sap, 

Hamel  and  all  that  hell ; 
See  where  the  old  lines  wind  ; 

It  seems  but  yesterday 
We  left  them  many  a  league  behind 

And  put  the  map  away. 

"  Never  again,"  we  said, 

"  Shall  we  sit  in  the  Kentish  Caves  ; 
Never  again  will  the  night-mules  tread 

Over  the  Beaucourt  graves  ; 
They  shall  have  Peace,"  we  dreamed — 

"  Peace  and  the  quiet  sun," 
And  over  the  hills  the  French  folk  streamed 

To  live  in  the  land  we  won. 

But  the  Bosch  has  Beaucourt  now  ; 

It  is  all  as  it  used  to  be — 
Airmen  peppering  Thiepval  brow, 

Death  at  the  Danger  Tree ; 
87 


88  THE  BOMBER  GIPSY 

The  tired  men  bring  their  tools 

And  dig  in  the  old  holes  there  ; 
The  great  shells  spout  in  the  Ancre  pools. 

The  lights  go  up  from  Serre. 

And  the  regiment  came,  they  say. 

Back  to  the  selfsame  land 
And  fought  like  men  in  the  same  old  way 

Where  the  cookers  used  to  stand  ; 
And  I  know  not  what  they  thought 

As  they  passed  the  Puisieux  Road, 
And  over  the  ground  where  Freyberg  fought 

The  tide  of  the  grey  men  flowed. 

But  I  think  they  did  not  grieve. 

Though  they  left  by  the  old  Bosch  line 
Many  a  cross  they  loathed  to  leave, 

i\Iany  a  mate  of  mine  ; 
I  know  that  their  eyes  were  brave, 

I  know  that  their  lips  were  stem. 
For  these  went  back  at  the  seventh  wave. 

But  they  wait  for  the  tide  to  turn. 


THE  VOYAGE  OF  H.M.S.  PRESIDENT 
A  Dream 

[Mr.  Punch  means  no  disrespect  to  H.M.S.  President, 
which,  being  moored  in  the  Thames  off  Bouverie  Street,  he 
has  always  looked  upon  as  his  guardship,  but  he  has  often 
wondered  what  would  happen  if  only  a  few  thousands  of 
the  officers  and  men  borne  on  her  books  were  to  issue 
from  the  Admiralty  and  elsewhere — but  especially  from 
the  Admiralty — and  go  on  board  their  ship ;  hence  the 
disquieting  dream  that  follows.] 

It  was  eighteen  bells  in  the  larboard  watch 

with  a  neap-tide  running  free. 
And  a  gale  blew  out  of  the  Ludgate  Hills  when 

the  President  put  to  sea  ; 
An  old  mule  came  down  Bouverie  Street  to 

give  her  a  helping  hand, 
And  I  didn't  think  much  of  the  ship  as  such, 

but  the  crew  was  something  grand. 

The  bo'sun  stood  on  a  Hoxton  bus  and  blew 

the  Luncheon  Call, 
And  the  ship's  crew  came  from  the  four  wide 

winds,  but  chiefly  from  Whitehall ; 
They  came  like  the  sand  on  a  wind-SNvept  strand, 

like  shots  from  a  Maxim  gun. 
And  the  old  mule  stood  with  the  tow-rope  on 

and  said,  "  It  can't  be  dond." 
89 


90  THE  BOMBER   GIPSY 

With  a  glitter  of  wiggly  braid  they  came,  with 

a  clatter  of  forms  and  files, 
The  little  A.P.'s  they  swarmed  like  bees,  the 

Commodores  stretched  for  miles  ; 
Post-Captains  came  with  hats  in  flame,  and 

Admirals  by  the  ell, 
And  which  of  the  lot  was  the  biggest  pot  there 

was  never  a  man  could  tell. 

They  choked  the  staggering  quarter-deck  and 

did  the  thing  no  good  ; 
They  himg  like  tars  on  the  mizzen-spars  (or 

those  of  the  crowd  that  could) ; 
Far  out  of  view  still  streamed  the  queue  when 

the  moke  said,  "  Well,  I'm  blowed 
If  I'll  compete  with  the  'ole  damn  Fleet,"  and 

he  pushed  off  down  the  road. 

And  the  great  ship  she  sailed  after  him,  though 

the  Lord  knows  how  she  did. 
With  her  gunwales  getting  a  terrible  wetting 

and  a  brace  of  her  stern  sheets  hid, 
^Vhen  up  and  spoke  a  sailor-bloke  and  he  said, 

"  It  strikes  me  queer. 
And  I've  sailed  the  sea  in  the  R.N.V.  this  five 

nnd-forty  year  ; 

"  But  a  ship  as  can't  'old  'arf  'er  crew,  why, 

what  sort  of  a  ship  is  'er  ? 
And  oo's  in  charge  of  the  pore  old  barge  if 

dangers  do  occur  ? 


VOYAGE   OF   H.M.S.    PRESIDENT    91 

And  I  says  to  you,  I  says,  '  Eave  to,  until  this 

point's  agreed  ' ;  " 
And  some  said,  "  Why  ?  "  and  the  rest,  "  Ay, 

ay,"  but  the  mule  he  paid  no  heed. 

So   the   old   beast   hauled   and   the  Admirals 

bawled  and  the  crew  they  fought  like  cats. 
And  the  ship  went  dropping  along  past  Wapping 

and  down  by  the  Plumstead  Flats ; 
But  the  rest  of  the  horde  that  wasn't  aboard 

they  trotted  along  the  bank. 
Or  jumped  like  frogs  from  the  Isle  of  Dogs,  or 

fell  in  the  stream  and  sank. 

But  while  tliey  went  by  the  coast  of  Kent  up 

spoke  an  aged  tar — 
"  A  joke's  a  joke,  but  this  'ere  moke  is  going  a 

bit  too  far  ; 
I  can  tell  by  the  motion  we're  nearing  the  ocean 

— and  thafs  too  far  for  me  "  ; 
But  just  as  he  spoke  the  tow-rope  broke  and 

the  ship  sailed  out  to  sea. 

And  somewhere  out  on  the  deep,  no  doubt, 

they  probe  the  problems  through 
Of  who's  in  charge  of  the  poor  old  barge  and 

what  they  ought  to  do  ; 
And  the  great  files  flash  and  the  dockets  crash 

and  the  inkwells  smoke  like  sin, 
While  many  a  U-boat  tells  the  tale  how  the 

President  did  her  in. 


92  THE  BOMBER  GIPSY 


For  many  have  tried  to  pierce  her  hide  and 

flung  torpedoes  at  her. 
But  the  vessel,  they  found,  was  barraged  round 

with  a  mile  of  paper  matter  ; 
The  whole  sea  swarms  with  Office  Forms  and 

the  U-boats  stick  like  glue, 
So  nothing  can  touch  the  President  much,  for 

nothing  at  all  gets  through. 


But  never,  alack,  will  the  ship  come  back,  for 
the  President  she's  stuck  too. 


STORIES  FOR  CIVILIANS 

THE    FLY 

Have  I  been  at  the  Front ! — O  Lor' ! 

Was  I  over  the  bags  ? — You  bet. 
They  tell  me  I  won  the  mouldy  war 

At  the  Battle  of  Nouvillette  ; 
The  bombs  was  terrible  thick 

And  the  shells  was  mountain-high. 
And  many  a  Bosch  went  back  to  Base, 
But  I  can't  say  much  about  what  took  place, 

For  /  had  a  fly  in  my  eye. 

We  were  just  getting  up  to  Fritz 

When  the  horrible  thing  occurred, 
And  bang  in  my  eye  the  blighter  sits. 

The  size  of  a  well-fed  bird  ; 
"  Come  on,"  the  officer  says  ; 

I  says  to  him,  "  '  By-and-by  ' ; 
It's  all  very  well  to  say,  '  Come  on  !  ' 
I  would  if  my  arms  and  legs  were  gone, 

But  Fve  got  a  fly  in  my  eye." 

Have  you  been  on  a  bicycle,  sir. 

And  copped  it  proper  the  same. 
When  the  world  was  only  a  misty  blur 

And  your  eye  like  a  red-hot  flame, 
93 


94  THE  BOMBER  GIPSY 

So  that  you  wept  great  tears. 

So  that  you  longed  to  die  ? 
Well,  think  what  it  is  when  there  happens  to  be 
A  battle  you  specially  came  to  see, 

And  then  get  a  fly  in  your  eye. 

They  say  as  there  ain't  no  doubt 

What  I  ought  to  have  gone  and  done — 
Turned  my  upper  lid  inside  out 

And  over  tlie  under  one  ; 
But  I  tell  you  the  bombs  was  thick. 

And  never  a  man  said  "  Hi ! 
Just  monkey  about  with  your  upper  lid  "  ; 
So  I  blew  my  nose  and  I  wept,  I  did. 

And  I  still  had  a  fly  in  my  eye. 

And  then,  sir,  I  just  went  mad, 

I  groped  for  my  trusty  hj^p. 
And  I  laid  about  like  a  Tyneside  lad 

With  a  good  blind  circular  swipe  ; 
They  tell  me  I  killed  ten  Huns 

And  laid  out  Corporal  Fry  ; 
The  Huns  they  took  to  their  heels  and  fled. 
And  even  the  Company  wished  me  dead. 

And  I  still  had  a  fly  in  my  eye. 

I  fell  on  my  poor  old  face, 

I  lay  in  a  hole  and  swore  ; 
And  now  they  call  me  a  shell-shock  case 

And  tell  me  I  won  the  War ; 


STORIES  FOR  CIVILIANS        95 

They  gave  me  the  D.C.M., 

And  that's  why  I  seem  so  shy. 
But  this  is  the  truth  I've  told  to  you, 
And  3'^ou  never  can  tell  what  a  man  won't  do 

With  a  darned  great  fly  in  his  eye. 


A  SONG  OF  PLENTY. 

The  shelling's  cruel  bad,  my  son, 
But  don't  you  look  too  black. 
For  every  blessed  German  one 
He  gets  a  dozen  back — 
But  I  remember  the  days 

When  shells  were  terrible  few, 
And  never  the  guns  could  bark  and  blaze 
The  same  as  they  do  for  you. 
But  they  sat  in  the  swamp  behind,  my  boy, 

and  prayed  for  a  tiny  shell. 
While  Fritz,  if  he  had  the  mind,  my  boy,  could 

give  us  a  first-class  hell ; 
And  I  know  that  a  5.9  looks  bad  to  a  bit  of  a 

London  kid. 
But  I  tell  you  yiu  were  a  lucky  lad  to  come  out 
when  you  did. 

Plenty  of  sand-bags  now,  my  son, 

Plenty  of  good  trench  stores, 
Plenty  of  wire  to  teach  the  Hun 
To  have  these  mouldy  wars — 
But  I  remember  a  day 

When  stores  were  terrible  few, 
And  we'd  nothing  to  keep  the  swine  away 
The  same  as  there  is  for  j^ou. 
96 


A  SONG  OF  PLENTY  97 

Ditches  then  at  the  best,  my  boy,  and  a  parapet 

all  m  rags. 
And  many  a  man  went  West,  my  boy,  for  lack 

of  a  few  score  bags  ; 
And  it's  all  the  same  to  an  English  lad  that's 

fighting  for  the  King, 
But  you  ought  to  be  just  a  trifle  glad  you've 

plenty  of  everything. 

Up  in  the  line  again,  my  son, 
And  dirty  work,  no  doubt. 
But  when  the  dirty  work  is  done 
They'll  take  the  Regiment  out — 
But  I  remember  a  day 

When  men  were  terrible  few 
And  we  hadn't  reserves  a  mile  away, 
The  same  as  there  are  for  you  ; 
But  fourteen  days  at  a  stretch,    my    boy,    and 

nothing  about  relief ; 
Fight  and  carry  and  fetch,  my  boy,  with  rests 

exceeding  brief ; 
And  rotten  as  all  things  sometimes  are,  they're 

not  as  they  used  to  be, 
And  you  ought  to  thank  your  lucky  star  you 
didn't  come  out  with  me. 


FATE 

A  Song  of  Wisdom 

They  tell  you  it  ain't  no  good 

A-wondering  when  you'll  die. 
Or  lying  low  as  a  soldier  should 

When  aereoplanes  is  by  ; 
For  whether  it  comes  in  a  sudden  way 

Or  lingering,  long  and  late. 
You  won't  go  under  until  the  day 

That's  settled  before  by  Fate. 

Ah,  well,  and  it  may  be  true — 

But  the  lads  I  like  to  see 
Are  the  ones  that  do  as  they're  told  to  do 

And  stay  where  they  ought  to  be  ; 
For  Fate  may  fix  on  a  far-off  date 

And  a  death  of  an  easy  kind. 
But  it  ain't  no  use  encouraging  Fate 

To  change  her  feminine  mind. 

So  I  keep  my  rifle  clean. 

And  I  use  my  eyes  and  ears. 
And  I  don't  go  wandering  off  the  scene 

A-Iooking  for  sooveneers ; 
98 


FATE  99 

And  maybe  the  bullet  that  bears  my  name 

Is  meant  for  a  distant  day. 
But  I  don't  get  playing  the  idiot  game 

When  the  other  ones  come  my  way. 

I've  been  out  many  a  day, 

And  seen  too  many  a  mate 
With  a  leg  or  an  arm  blown  clean  away 

By  a  thing  he  thought  was  Fate. 
But  when  six  men  get  playing  about 

With  a  rusty  old  bomb  gone  bad. 
Then  what  is  it  knocks  the  six  men  out  ? — 

Not  Fate,  but  Folly,  my  lad. 

And  it's  better  alive  than  dead 

You'll  serve  the  old  platoon. 
So  try  to  do  as  the  officer  said. 

And  not  to  die  too  soon. 
Though  a  man  can't  add  to  his  earthly  span, 

It's  a  thing  worth  trying  to  do. 
You  take  good  care  of  yourself,  young  man. 

And  Fate  won't  matter  to  you. 


Printed  in  Great  Britain  by  Jarrold  &-  Sons,  Ltd. 
Norwich. 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


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